


By Fire

by mei_fics



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Asoiaf - Fandom, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Long Shot, Masturbation, Sandor x Sansa, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, sansa x sandor - Freeform, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:17:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 26
Words: 43,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1701182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mei_fics/pseuds/mei_fics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(AU) When Joffery Baratheon rewards his loyal dog with his ex-betrothed, the "game of thrones" is changed completely., with Sansa and Sandor coming into the light as active players.</p><p>Sansa and Sandor face marriage complications, betrayal, hardship, and loss, whilst getting to know one another on their journeys. "By Fire" will follow the basic plot of ASoIaF, with canon-divergence. </p><p>This fanfic is currently rated "teen" but will become "mature" in later chapters. Read with trepidation.</p><p>Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, or possible direct quotations from the book  mentioned here. All characters, and their universe, belong to George R.R Martin respectively.<br/> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Change of Fate

     The Battle of Blackwater was won. King Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, crushed Stannis Baratheon’s army on the Blackwater with the backing of the Lannister and Tyrell armies.

    From her window, Sansa watched the Blackwater burn. Even after the surprise attack with wildfire, Stannis’s men flooded the beaches, screaming, shouting, killing. She felt as if the Blackwater would rise up over the city walls, engulfing her in a green and fiery death. A death she preferred over a beheading by Ser Ilyn Payne.

    She clutched her doll.

    She thought of her father.

     As a tear rolled from her cheek she told herself: _I can be brave_. When sleep took her, she saw the evil flames flicker behind her eyelids, heard the screams of dying men, and Joffrey’s smile.

 

* * *

 

     In the royal throne room, all watched as Tywin Lannister was proclaimed the “Savior of King’s Landing” and the new Hand of the King. Sansa shuddered at the word. Lord Petyr Baelish was awarded for his good service and ingenuity for uniting the houses of Lannister and Tyrell, and was granted the castle of Harrenhal.

     “You honor me beyond word, Your Grace. I shall have to acquire some sons and grandsons,” he said, with a sly smile.

     He then looked up towards Sansa, with that same half smile, but his eyes had darkened. Petyr, although he claimed to want the best for her, made Sansa uneasy. His mouth said one thing, but his eyes were filled with want of something else. He was one of the only men that she thought she could trust and knew she shouldn’t trust at all.

     Joffrey then called up Ser Loras, the beautiful Knight of Flowers. Ser Loras looked even more handsome, more mature even, than he did at the Hand’s Tourney. He had survived the battle, a _man_ , she thought. Sansa’s heart fluttered at the memory of the tourney. Somewhere on her dressing table, the red rose he gave her lay. Although wilted, it smelled just as sweet. Petyr’s grin grew deeper. Joffrey then shifted uncomfortably on his throne and announced awkwardly: “You house has…come to our aid, the whole realm is in your debt, none more so than I. If your family would ask anything of me: ask it. And it shall be yours.” Whenever Joffrey tried to sound “king-like,” Sansa noticed that he sounded like a child fumbling over his words. Even with obviously rehearsed lines, they came out unnaturally.

_He is no king._

     Loras started: “Your Grace.” Said so perfectly and eloquently! Down on one knee, his sandy-brown hair framed his face like a wreath, and in that moment he truly looked like the knight Florian. He continued: “My sister Margaery, her husband was taken from us before…” He paused, the words seemed to be caught in his throat: “She remains innocent.” With that Joffrey sat upright, his hand coming up to rest on his face, intrigued. “I would ask you to find it in your heart, to do us the great honor in joining our houses.” Whispers echoed throughout the court.

     “Is this what you want, Lady Margaery?” Joffrey asked.

     “With all my heart Your Grace.” Margaery then stepped forward, her posture completely poised, her lips curling into a smile. Beaming, she continued: “I have come to love you from afar, tales of your courage and wisdom have never been far from my ears. And those tales have taken root _deep_ inside of me.”

     Sansa held onto the banister to keep from fainting. The scene before her felt as if it were a cruel dream, and she was unable to wake up to face her fate.

     Joffrey, squirming in his seat, trying not to look like a dog who was presented with a fresh bone, replied: “I too have…heard tales of your beauty and grace, but your tales do not do you justice, my lady.” Margaery smiled sweetly. She was _perfect_. “It would be an honor to return your love, but, I am promised to another. A king must keep his word.” Sansa’s heart throbbed in her chest, as the king shifted his gaze towards her.

     Surprisingly Queen Cersei, and the rest of the small counsel agreed that it wouldn’t be wise to wed a traitor's daughter, or false-king’s sister.

     She was to be set aside.

     “Ser Loras, I will gladly wed your sweet sister. You will be my queen. And I will love you from this day, to my last day.”

     With that everyone clapped, and a new hope blossomed within Sansa. However, it was quickly plucked by Joffrey’s cruel fingers. He raised his hand, the court fell silent.

     “What shall we do with a traitor’s daughter?” said Joffrey, voice filled with his usual wicked zeal, as he looked her in the eyes. Her heart dropped. He motioned to her. “Sansa, come here.”

     She swallowed hard, and descended the steps and knelt dutifully in front of her king. She would not beg for mercy. She knew that she wouldn’t get any, not from _him_.

     “Because there has been a slight change of arrangement, I cannot uphold the our vow that dead Ned Stark and my father made for us.”

      “Yes, Your Grace.” Unable to know what to say, bracing herself for the cruel fate Joffrey was about to bestow upon her.

     _I can be brave_.

     “ _DOG!_ ” Joffrey yelled. The Hound then appeared, and knelt curtly in front of his king. The burned side of his face twitched, and accentuated his ugly and sour scowl. He was the ugliest man Sansa had ever met. She tried to keep her breath even, but her chest heaved. Was she going to be publicly stripped and beaten again? Did Joffrey remember how the Hound covered her with his cloak to protect her modesty, and did not partake in her beating?

     No, _it will be much worse_.

      “You fought as brave as a dog could during the Battle of the Blackwater.” He paused, “However, like a craven you almost deserted, and it took my dwarf uncle to put sense into you. But, as drunk as you were, you did go back and fight…” Joffrey shifted on the throne, clearly amused with his new scheme.

     She heard it said that at the height of the battle, he got so drunk the Imp had to take his men into battle with him. But Sansa understood. She knew the secret of his burned face. _It was only the fire he feared._ That night, the wildfire had set the river itself ablaze, and filled the very air with green flame. Even in the castle, Sansa had been afraid. Outside…she could scarcely imagine it.

     “Yes, Your Grace.” When The Hound replied, his eyes stayed cast down, unamused to be a part of Joffrey’s new little game.

     “Seeing that you’re only half craven, and being that you are my loyal dog, I cannot dismiss you. You will be rewarded for your service, and bravery during the battle.”

     “Thank-you, Your Grace.”

     The whole court erupted in whispers. What did Joffrey intend for The Hound? And for the Stark girl? Lord Tyrion was not there to save her from this jape. Public embarrassment and beatings weren’t as bad as this could be, and she felt as if she could wretch in front of the entire court.

   She _knew_.

     “For your loyal service and bravery during the Battle of the Blackwater, seeing that Sansa Stark is no longer betrothed, you shall take her as your bitch-wife, and make her Lady Clegane. A perfect arrangement don’t you think? Ned Stark’s traitor daughter, and a craven dog!” Joffrey beamed, laughing in his chair. All the small council members looked mortified, except the for the Queen Regent. The corner of her mouth lifted into the faintest grin.

     Petyr interjected: “But Your Grace, Sansa Stark is still woman of value. You must not really intend to cast her to the side when she can be of use to you, and your family.” The comment met deaf ears.

     “Sansa Stark is the daughter of a traitor, and has traitors blood, she has said that herself. There is no value in traitor’s blood Lord Baelish. She will make a perfect Lady Clegane, don’t you think so too, little dove?”

    For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. The whole court would smell the lies on her breath, the Hound most of all. With as much courage and poise as she could muster, she spoke. “As a traitor’s daughter I thank-you, Your Grace, for granting more mercy than my traitor father.” The words burning on her tongue, she looked him square in the eyes and continued, “I promise to be a dutiful wife to the Hou- Sandor Clegane.”

     “Let it be done then! Let the houses of Stark and Clegane be joined! Enjoy your gift, Hound.”

     “Thank you, Your Grace.” He replied, not once looking Sansa.

     As she exited the throne room she was approached by Lord Baelish. He grabbed her arm, and she was quickly forced into close proximity with him.

     “I know that you don’t want this to happen Sansa.” He said, stroking a strand of hair away from her face. She could smell his minty breath. She shuddered. “I could take you far away from here, to your mother and brother perhaps, where there would be no Hound waiting for you in your marriage bed. I could keep you safe.”

     As badly as she wanted to accept, to run far away as possible that she could, she couldn’t. And as badly as she wanted to sprout wings and fly away from the Red-Keep, away from Joffrey, Cersei, Ser Ilyn Payne, Ser Meryn, and all the people who took joy in seeing her harmed, she knew she wouldn't be any safer.

     “I will be safe here. The Hou- Sandor Clegane will keep me safe.”

     “You’re a _fool_ to think that a man like The Hound will keep you safe.” Petyr said, his voice filled with disgust as he pulled away, leaving Sansa alone in the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Opening sequence dialogue (after the first break) from the throne room is taken from HBO’s adaptation of the books. I mainly wanted to work with characterization. 
> 
> -“..she heard it said; at the height of the battle, he got so drunk the Imp had to take his men. But Sansa understood. She knew the secret of his burned face. It was only the fire he feared. That night, the wildfire had set the river itself ablaze, and filled the very air with green flame. Even in the castle, Sansa had been afraid. Outside… she could scarcely imagine it.” Quote from Storm of Swords.
> 
> -Because this is a Blackwater au, more like post-Blackwater au, I tried to mash up some of the dialogue between Sansa and Sandor, if you couldn’t tell.


	2. A Maiden's Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gives Sandor her favor.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, or possible direct quotations from the book mentioned here. All characters, and their universe, belong to George R.R Martin respectively.  
> 

     That night Sansa hardly slept. She had hoped that dreams would claim her so she could escape her misfortunate reality. But they never came. She was stirred by Shae, who clamored around her bed-chamber. Although she could hardly be considered a proper lady, Shae was kind to her, and Sansa knew Shae was one of the only people she could trust. When she noticed that Sansa had woken, Shae sat on her bedside, reaching out to grasp her hand.

    “I heard the news. How do you feel?”

     For a time Sansa didn’t respond, how _did_ she feel? She was cast aside by Joffrey, so that he and Margery could wed. Sansa would never have to bear his children, be his wife, or pretend to love him. _I won’t be his queen_ , she thought. _I won’t have to marry a monster_. However, by escaping one cruel fate Joffrey created another for her: marrying The Hound. Sansa would have to bear his children, be his wife, and pretend to love _him_ instead.

    The Hound was a man who frightened her; in fact, he _enjoyed_ frightening her, but he also treated her with respect. He was a man who spoke to her in a brutally honest way.

    A man who enjoyed killing.

    A man that showed glimpses of gentleness.

    A man of a thousand contradictions.

    He scared off Ser Ilyn Payne when he had frightened her, wiped the blood off her lip after Ser Meryn slapped her, saved her from being raped during the bread-riots, stood up for her on Joffrey’s name day celebration, caught her and Shae trying to burn her moonblood stained mattress, and even covered her with his white Kingsguard cloak when Joffrey had her publicly shamed and beaten.

    _Why?_

    Why would he show her kindness, and mock her so? What was he gaining through all of this? He was terribly hideous, and cruel in his own way, and when the words _Lady Clegane_ flashed across her mind, her heart sunk.

     In no way did she want to marry The Hound; however, it was better than marrying Joffrey.

    “I can’t put it into words Shae.”

    “That boy is so cruel to you, you do not deserve this. He-”

    “I am a traitor’s daughter, with traitor’s blood, this is what I deser-” Before Sansa could finish Shae gripped onto her wrist and glared at her, her brown eyes ablaze with a shocking anger.

    “Stop saying that. The more you say it the more you will believe it.”    

     Outside, a bird sang.

    “I don’t want to marry him.”

     “Would you rather marry that evil boy-king?

     “Of course not Shae! It’s just that.. The Hound is so..”

    “Ugly.”    

     “ _Shae!_ ”

    “It is true he is an ugly man, but as far as I know he is not the worst, no?”

    “He told me that he _likes_ killing, that it’s the sweetest thing there is.” Sansa recalled how he ran down the butcher’s boy, Mycah, during their time on the Kingsroad, as if it were nothing. He took pleasure in killing and it frightened her.

     “Well then he is either stupid man or a liar. Men love two things, killing _and_ women. Especially _pretty_ women.”

      With that, Sansa allowed herself to smile. Shae hardly spoke very courtly or lady-like, she spoke truly, and that's what she admired in her. It reminded Sansa  of her lost sister.

     “Don’t worry about that man, I will make sure he treats you good my lady.” Shae said, sitting up from the bed.

      “What do you mean, what can someone like _you_ do?”

      “Don’t worry. If he hurts you, I will kill him.”

      Sansa remembered the night of the Battle of the Blackwater; Shae had told her to run back to her chambers, then revealed the dagger underneath her skirts. Sansa was still unsure of who the strange woman called Shae was, but she knew she could trust her all the same.

      “He won’t hurt me.”

      “I will make sure of it.” Shae said with her sweet smile, beginning to dress and prepare Sansa for her day.

 

* * *

 

     That day she met with Lady Margaery and her grandmother, the Queen of Thorns, in one of the Red Keep’s various luxurious gardens. She found that Margaery was as gentle, elegant, and cunning as the stories said, and her grandmother, witty and blunt. Margaery surprised her with a secret: one of the dress makers that accompanied the Tyrell litter to Kings Landing was going to make her wedding dress, in light of their new friendship. Sansa couldn’t imagine the kind of dress Cersei, or any of the Lannisters, would have made her wear. _Probably Lannister colors just to mock me_ , she thought.

     Sansa had also had confessed that she believed Joffrey was a monster, the words coming out as a choke. This came at almost no surprise to the two Tyrell women. Sansa felt as if a weight from her chest had been lifted; she was no longer alone to deal with Joffrey’s cruelty. Although she felt relieved, it was at Margaery’s expense. Then again, Sansa was marrying The Hound at the end of the week. He was no Joffrey, but no ideal match mate all the same.

     The Queen of Thorns expressed how she had wished to marry Sansa to Loras, and Sansa’s heart leaped in her chest. Oh how she wished that somehow the Tyrells could convince Joffrey to let her marry Loras instead of The Hound! Loras was perfect, as if he was created from one of the song’s about knightly valor and a maiden’s love. Loras was a man as different from Sandor Clegane as... _well, as a flower from a dog_.

    She then remembered what he father told her before he was arrested: that he’d find her a match who was more worthy of her, kind and strong. Surely her father would have agreed that Loras was the ideal match. Even though she was considered to have traitor’s blood, someone as highborn and refined as she didn’t deserve to marry someone as rough, mean, and lowborn as The Hound.

     Sansa also thought of how her lady mother would react to her future union. When her mother got the news, she knew that she would weep for her; her precious daughter married off to a lowborn man. On the other hand, her mother would also tell her: “ _Family, Duty, Honor._ ” She would tell her to be brave, to be strong, and to try to be the best wife that she could, even if she disapproved strongly. Sansa missed her mother terribly, and wished she was here to tell her what she should do.

     The only thing that Sansa knew she had to do is that, she had to be _brave_. Walking back from the gardens, she silently vowed to herself that she would not let Joffrey know that he won. Sansa would try to be the best wife she could be to The Hound, and perhaps the best liar in all of Westeros.

 

* * *

 

     Sansa and Shae had decided to take the long route back to her chambers, Sansa enjoying the open air and gardens tremendously. Most of the time she was locked up in her chambers, her only company Shae or embroidery. Sansa loved the way the sun felt on her skin, and how it made her auburn hair shine like bright copper. In many ways, The Hound’s nickname for her was a perfect suit: a little bird, locked up in a cage wishing to fly free. A bird who knew only how to chirp the songs and courtesies her septa taught her. _A stupid, annoying little bird_ , she thought, That’s what he thinks of me, and it’s _true_. _A stupid girl, with stupid dreams who learns nothing. I only know my courtesies, and it’s only cause me harm here in Kings Landing_. She didn’t want to be a little bird anymore.

      Passing near where the men would practice arms, she saw the one man she was hoping to avoid, walking towards her with Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount in tow. She could already see their mocking grins upon their faces, making her chest tighten. What would she say? Was he going to just walk by her, or would he stop to mock her in front of the other Kingsgaurd members? Shae gave her her usual strong look. She was there to help if needed be. Sansa thought about how Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount would tell Joffrey of her and the Hound’s meeting. _Joffrey will not laugh at the story they would tell him,_ she promised.

      “ _My lord_ , Ser Meryn, Ser Boros.” She curtsied.

      “Lady Stark, or should I say, _Lady Clegane_.” Ser Boros said, mocking her. Ser Meryn chuckling to himself.

      She looked directly at The Hound. “Are you off to train my lord?” She asked as politely as she could.

      “What of it?” He replied harshly, obviously annoyed at her formality. Although he hated it, Sansa knew that _courtesy is a woman's weapon._

      “Just curious my lord. Do you train everyday then?”

      “Just about. We’ll be going on our way now.” He said as he took a step to walk past her.

      “My lord, if you have a moment.. I would like to give you something.”

      Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount were thoroughly enjoying their little show. The Hound wanted to get far away from his future, chirping wife as soon as possibly. Joffrey would be roaring!

      “What?” He replied curtly, showing even more aggravation. She could tell that he didn’t like being put on the spot, especially with an audience.

      “May I see your sword my lord?” She asked, making sure to look at his burned side and into his eyes.

      “What the _seven hells_ for?

      “A gift my lord, may I see?”

      With a grunt that sounded more like a feral growl, he unsheathed his sword, and held it out to her. And with as much grace as she could muster, Sansa untied the ribbon that held up her hair, her auburn curls bounced free. They cascaded down her back and shoulders, her face was framed by hair that appeared aflame in the bright sunlight. She tied the delicate ribbon around his sword’s hilt.

     “A favor my lord.” She again looked him in the eyes, but this time she saw a change of expression on his face. It was something mixed between shock and anger. Without missing a heartbeat, Sansa bowed her head and kissed the blade. Looking up from the sword, she smiled as prettily as she could and said: “Until we see each other again my lord, perhaps that day will be our wedding day. Come Shae.”

    And with that, Sansa Stark swiftly walked away, with her handmaiden in tow. Leaving Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Boros Blount with a unbelievable story to tell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “A man as different from Sandor Clegane as... well, as a flower from a dog.” Quote from A Storm of Swords by George R.R Martin. 
> 
> “A stupid girl, with stupid dreams who learns nothing.” Quote from the HBO adaptation, when Sansa and Margaery talk about Sansa’s betrothal to Tyrion. Sophie Turner’s portrayal of Sansa is amazing, and I just love that quote.


	3. Wedding: Gray and Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Houses Clegane and Stark are united under the light of the Seven.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or possible direct quotations from the book mentioned here. All characters, and their universe, belong to George R.R Martin respectively.

     The whole week Sansa had wished that this day would never have to come, but it did.

     She would be Lady Clegane by sundown.

     The bride to be woke up with a groan.

     “You’re finally awake my lady.” She heard Shae say. “I thought you would try to sleep the day away.”

     “If I could, I would never have to marry _The Hound_.” Sansa said, propping herself up on her bed. Shae walked over to the edge of the bed and sat down, like the way she did a few days before, and held her hand. Shae didn’t say anything. She examined her face, and looked into Sansa’s Tully blue eyes, with her large, brown, and warm ones staring back, giving her silent comfort. Her eyes read: _it’s going to be okay_. Feeling a sense of new-kindled hope, Sansa shifted out of her bedsheets and swung her long, pale legs over the edge of the bed, sitting sideways to Shae.

     “It’ll be okay.” Sansa said, turning to look at Shae, who returned her statement with a small, warm smile.

     “It will.” She gave the girl’s had a squeeze. _So young, so innocent; a child bride_ , Shae thought.

     “They brought me your gown for tonight my lady, do you want to see it?” Shae asked. With excitement Sansa replied: “Yes of course. I’m been dying to see.”

     Shae brought the dress over and held it up for Sansa. The dress looked very southern with an off the shoulder neckline, column shaped bottom, and swirling leaf and flower patterned fabric design. At the top of the dress simple roses and birds were embroidered. The dress was made of a light grey, thick, cashmere. It was one of the least conservative dresses she would probably ever wear, very much unlike the dresses she wore every day in Kings Landing. She always dressed modestly like her lady mother. But this dress was definitely from Highgarden, and reminded Sansa of the beautiful flowing gowns that Margaery wore. Less revealing of course, but a statement nonetheless. And a statement it was.

     Sansa wiped a tear away from her eye at the sight of her house colors. Surely Cersei and the rest of the Lannisters wouldn’t be happy about the color choices. It was clearly a statement from Margaery and her grandmother. She silently thanked them, and knew that she would repay them as soon as she could. The Stark girl hadn't worn her house colors since she left Winterfell.

    “It’s beautiful.”

     “You will look even more beautiful in it tonight.” Shae said, smiling. “The Queen has asked to dine with you in the gardens this afternoon, along with Lady Margaery.” Shae’s smile quickly melting into a frown.

 

* * *

     In the gardens, the shade was cool, and a gentle breeze could be felt blowing off the Blackwater. Any other day Sansa would have enjoyed dining in the gardens under these weather conditions, but not today.

     “Did you have a chance to look at the dress my lady?” Margaery asked sweetly. The queen regent raised her eyebrow, looking at Sansa to see her response.

     “I did, and I am most grateful to you and your grandmother Lady Margaery. It’s so beautiful…” Sansa trailed off, uncomfortable under Cersei’s stare.

     “I’m delighted to hear that. You will look beautiful tonight, I know it.” Margaery said with her signature smile.

     “What color is the gown?” Cersei asked, unamused.

     “It’s very light color, your Grace. In the morning sunlight I couldn’t quite tell what shade it was.” Sansa said, uncomfortable to reveal the color to the Queen Regent. Which was silly of her because by tonight she would see the dress anyways. Sansa was afraid that the Queen might refuse to let her wear it or yell at her.

     “Ah, I see. Come tonight we’ll know, won’t we?” She replied, looking towards Margaery. Sansa couldn’t tell who looked more unhappy to be there, her or Cersei. If  Margaery was uncomfortable, she clearly didn’t express it.

     “Tonight, yes. How are you feeling Sansa, are you nervous?” Margaery asked Sansa. Again, the queen watched Sansa for her response.

     “Isn’t every bride to be nervous before her wedding night?” Sansa said, quickly grabbing a small cake off the table in hopes that she wouldn’t be asked any more questions about the wedding while she was eating.

     “Were you nervous on your wedding day, your Grace?” Margaery countered.

     “Yes. But then again Robert was no Sandor Clegane. That day I was the most envied girl in all of Westeros. Robert was tall, proud, fit like a bull, and _handsome_.” Cersei said, adding the last bit just to hurt Sansa more.

     “Is that so your Grace,” Sansa said flatly.

 

* * *

 

     Sansa _did_ look beautiful. The dress complimented her creamy complexion and her bright blue eyes, and contrasted the fiery brightness of her auburn hair. Sansa had requested to have her hair left down, not wanting her hair to be done in the southern fashion. One of the handmaidens sent by the queen protested, but Sansa remained firm. In the end, Sansa’s hair was styled in a half up and half down style: two braids coming from behind her ears, and falling into the gentle waves of hair behind her. When she looked in the mirror she couldn’t believe the girl who was staring back at her was herself. A beautiful maid, a bride to be.

     Before she left her chamber to be escorted to the sept, she looked at her reflection once more. She looked so much like her lady mother, and thought, _I am a Stark, I can be brave_.

 

* * *

     At the sept’s doors she was greeted by Joffrey, who told her that because her father was dead, he being the “father of the kingdoms” would be the one walking her down the aisle to her intended.

     Sandor Clegane.

     He stood all the way at the end of the sept, immediately catching Sansa’s gaze upon her entry. She couldn’t read his expression, he looked very different somehow. Maybe it was the way the dying afternoon light pooled into the sept. Or maybe Sansa’s mind was playing tricks on her and he didn’t look any different at all. Certainly he didn’t look anymore handsome, but from far away she couldn’t really tell.

     _I can be brave_.

     Sansa took Joffrey’s arm as she walked down the stairs of the sept and onto the aisle. She kept her spine straight and made sure she didn’t cast her eyes down. At the front she could see a hint of fury flicker across the queen’s countenance; Margaery gave her a soft smile. Sansa made sure she didn’t look at anyone but her intended for too long. She was going to make a statement: she was going to show them that she’s a Stark of Winterfell.

     She wasn’t afraid, not anymore.

     Upon reaching the top of the steps at the end of the sept, she realized what looked so different about The Hound. It was his _eyes_. They weren’t filled with the usual anger that she had always seen, nor was it the gentleness that she saw briefly at times. No, it was something _else_. He looked at her in a way that no other man had looked at her before. His mouth was slightly agape, and he just _looked_ at her, as if seeing her for the first time, with a sense of clarity.

     “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” The septon said.

     Sansa turned around, and The Hound draped a yellow and black maiden-cloak around her shoulders. From the texture, Sansa could feel that the cloak was well worn. She then turned, and faced her intended, looking up at him as he seemed to tower over her. Her expression matched his.

     They held out their hands: The Hound’s large atop her small, delicate other to be symbolically bound by the light of the Seven.

     “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one, for eternity. Look upon each other and say the words.”

     At first Sansa’s voice quivered, but by the end her voice was filled with composure and clarity. The Hound seemed almost reluctant to say the words, audibly snorting at the septon. By the end he too sounded more confident in what he was saying, both their voices coming together to make one steady sound.

     “Father, Smith, _Warrior_ , Maiden, Mother, Crone, _Stranger_. I am hers, and _she is mine_. From this day until the end of my days.”

     “Father, Smith, _Warrior, Maiden, Mother_ , Crone, Stranger. I am his and he is mine. From this day until the end of my days.”

     For a moment the sept was still. Sansa looked up at him, and he back down at her. There was only one last thing to do. She let her eyes wander across his face: the hook of his nose, his sharp cheekbones and his heavy brow. His eyes were a soft grey. She made to sure to look at his burns, twisted and ugly as they were, but in the warm, yellow sunlight, they didn’t look as awful. In that moment they looked into each other’s eyes, searching. Sansa then stood on her tips of her toes, and placed her hand gently on his breast so that she could reach his lips for their wedding kiss. She heard him clear his throat, and then leaned down to give her a quick, dry, peck on the lips.

     Everyone clapped, Sansa forced herself to smile, her lord husband cleared his throat again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love Sansa and Shae’s relationship in the HBO series, until it turned sour of course. 
> 
> Westeros wedding traditions are really interesting, and the vows they take are so beautiful. I wish GRRM or HBO would give us a northern style wedding though.


	4. Wedding Part II: Bedding Ceremony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bedding ceremony.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, or possible direct quotations from the book mentioned here. All characters, and their universe, belong to George R.R Martin respectively.  
> 

     Their wedding reception dinner was small, which they both seemed to prefer anyways. They were served elk meatballs stuffed with goat cheese, game hens with garlic and gravy, onion and potato pie, and small peach cakes, topped off with wine from the Arbor. It was a modest meal; one well suited for a traitor’s daughter and the king’s loyal dog.

     Sansa shifted nervously next to her husband the whole reception, picking at the food on her plate. As delicious as the food might had been, she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep it down without wretching from nervousness. For a man the size of The Hound, he didn’t seem very interested in the food in front of him, or the wine for that matter. Throughout the dinner she often caught Margery’s gaze, giving her looks of consolation. Shae was also nowhere to be found. When she accidentally caught Joffrey’s gaze, the corner’s of his lips would raise into his signature, cruel smile. Joffrey then stood, and then stammered, seeming to have too much to drink.  
  
    “It’s about time we had that bedding ceremony!” Joffrey clapped. Everyone in attendance cheered, and Sansa saw the queen laugh to herself.  
  
    “To bed! To bed! To bed!”  
  
    Her husband then abruptly rose from his seat, knocking over a goblet of wine, and starling Sansa.  
  
    “ _Anyone who touches the little bird wishes he never lived_.”  
  
    The room went silent under The Hounds threat.  
  
    “But dog, it’s tradition! There _will_ be a bedding!” Joffery whined.  
  
    “Bedding ceremonies are for buggering high-lords who don’t know where to put it in a woman. I’ll see to her myself.”

  
    With that, The Hound lifted Sansa up and hoisted her over his shoulder, and walked down from the dais. Sansa audibly gasped, completely surprised by The Hound’s reaction. Her face felt like it was burning, never before in her entire life was she _this_ embarrassed. The Hound held her firmly on her bottom as carried her out of the reception hall. She squeezed her eyes shut, in hopes that she could keep the tears at bay.  
  
    Joffery clapped, the audience laughed and hollered as the fiercest fighters in all of Westeros carried his little-bird of a wife off to bed.

* * *

  
    He was completely silent as he carried her to her chambers. The silence making Sansa even more uncomfortable, after a minuet or two she spoke: “Uh, ser, you can put me down now, I can walk on my--”  
  
    “I’m no ser.” He replied with a grunt. The Hound swiftly carried his little wife all the way to her chamber doors, Sansa’s heart threatening to beat out of her chest all the way. He kicked open the door without a single hint of grace, and lifted her down off of him. Sansa looked down at her feet, seemingly unable to move. The Hound noticed how long her eyelashes were, and how her soft, plump, lips trembled. Was is anticipation? No, fear.  
  
    “I’ll be back. Undress into just your small clothes.”

  
    For the first moment all day, Sansa was alone. She sighed, trying to shake some of the nerves off and went to go undress on her bed. Our bed, she corrected. Her hands shook as she tried to undo the laces of her dress. _What if I tell him no? What if I tell him that I would feel more comfortable if.._ Sansa laughed at the thought. She could practically hear his laughter. _I will most definitely be bedded tonight. I’ll be Sansa Clegane in truth._ Her wedding gown pooled around her feet, and she sat in nothing but her small clothes as she waited for her lord husband to come bed her.

  
    Sansa jumped as the door was kicked open, again. _I will have to get used to that I suppose_. She cast her eyes down onto the fidgeting hands in her lap. The Hound closed the door and seemed to stay in the doorway for a few moments.

  
    He took the opportunity to devour her with his eyes. _This won’t be happening again anytime soon_ , he thought to himself. He watched her auburn hair glow from the flickering firelight, and the flames seemed to lick her ivory skin. He could see the full roundness of her breast, her hard, pink nipples, the curve of her hips, and her long slender legs. He felt himself grow painfully hard as he stepped forward.

  
    Sansa then looked up, her expression matching a frightened animal in the shadow of her prey. _Predator and prey. A little bird caught in the jaws of an ugly, old, hound_. Her expression then changed to shock, The Hound was wearing his signature black armor. _Is this some sort of joke_? She thought.  
  
    “My lord, why are you--?” He moved closer to her, Sansa’s body instantly stiffening. Surely he didn’t intend to bed her wearing his armor. He kneeled down next to her, and reached under her bed, as if he was searching for something.  
  
    “My lord?”  
  
    “Here, put this on. All your valuables are already packed. We’re leaving.”  
  
    Sansa felt a warm, woolen dress in her lap. Wool stockings and riding boots at her feat.  
  
    “What do you mean? Where are we going? What about the bedding?”  
  
    “There will be no bedding. We’re leaving this bloody keep for good. Be quick about it, I don’t want to run into trouble.”  
  
    She couldn’t believe her ears. Without a word, she complied. Awkwardly, she dressed, fumbling just as much as she did when she undressed just moments ago. The Hound then held out a fur cloak to her, demurely, Sansa took the cloak and wrapped it around herself.  Clothes such as these could only mean one thing: _North._ He was taking her _north._  
  
    “My lord, I-”  
  
    “Are you ready?” He cut her off.  
  
    “Yes.”  
  
    “We can’t waste anymore time. We must fly.”  
  
    Sansa followed The Hound through the Red Keep, going through different rooms and backdoors. Her gaze was fixed on his back and shoulders, almost unable to keep up with his long strides. The full moon hung low in the sky, illuminating his large form. Once Sansa may have thought escaping in the moonlight would have been romantic, but The Hound was no Florian, nor Dragonknight.

  
_He’s saving me all the same._

  
    Their wedding party could be heard across the keep, laughing, drinking. As the whole keep thought they were currently consummating the marriage, the bride and groom swiftly made their way to the stables.  
  
    “My lord, please-” Sansa stopped, utterly out of breath, as she leaned against a pillar.  
  
    “What? We can’t stop. What do you think will happen if someone finds us, hmm?” The Hound grabbed her arm, about to lift her up.  
  
    “My lord, please.” Sansa said, pushing a hand to his chest.  
  
    “What?” He spat.  
  
    “Thank-you.” Sansa made sure to look up at him, to meet his stare.  
  
    “I don’t need your thank-you’s. Now let’s go.”  
  
    “Thank-you..” Sansa paused. “Thank-you for always saving me. Now, and then.”  
  
    “You’re not saved quite yet.”  
  
    With that The Hound lifted her up on her shoulders for a second time that night, and once they reached the stables, placed her sideways atop his large warhorse, Stranger. Sansa was surprised to see that the horse was already saddled, with bedrolls and provisions.  
  
    “How did you do all this?” She asked as The Hound saddled Stranger. Sandor grabbed the reins from in front of her, and their position almost felt like an embrace.  
  
    “Your little handmaiden helped.”  
  
    With that the couple burst out the stable door, and into the moonlit night.  
  
     _Home_ , she was going _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They way food is described in ASoIaF makes my stomach howl (even though I’m a vegetarian.) And in the TV show it looks even more delicious. I hope Sansa and Sandor’s wedding meal sounds authentic enough.
> 
> No bedding! I hope you’re not too disappointed, but I promise there will be one, eventually that is. Please take into account that this fanfic is going to be a longfic / slow-burn type.
> 
> I really liked the idea of Shae and Sandor working together to somehow get both of them out of the capital safe.


	5. A Master and His Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey out of King's Landing begins. Tensions ensue.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, or possible direct quotations from the book mentioned here. All characters, and their universe, belong to George R.R Martin respectively.

     They rode long into the night, the large, full moon bearing witness to their escape.

     Sansa had awoken during the hour of the wolf, Stranger still in a fierce trot.

     “Where are we?” Sansa asked, rubbing her bleary eyes.

     “Not far enough from King’s Landing, that’s for sure,” The Hound replied.

     “Do you know where you’re going?”

     “Of course I know where I’m _bloody_ going, quit your chirping and go back to sleep.” He scorned. She didn’t wake again until late-morning, her body too fatigued from the day before and the hard ride out of King’s Landing. Sansa arched her back and heard her spine crack in multiple places. It felt good, but she was soon aware of the acute pain in her neck and backside.

     “Aren’t you tired?” She asked, genuinely concerned; they had been riding for hours non-stop. She also felt bad for Stranger.

     “Can’t afford to be tired, girl.” He took a swig from his wineskin and continued: “Men like me are used to not sleeping for days at end. There’s a spot not too far from here where we can set up camp out of site from the Kingsroad. We’ll rest up and leave at sundown.”

     “What about Stranger? Doesn’t he need more rest?”

     “He’s a fucking war-horse. He’s been through much worse.”

     Sansa didn’t ask any further questions, feeling disheartened from The Hound’s harshness. When they reached the spot hours later, her lord husband unsaddled first, then grabbed Sansa by the waist and lifted her down off Stranger.

     “Thank you.” She said, feeling flustered. Sansa was no Arya when it came to riding, but she could unsaddle a horse by herself if it needed be.

     “Enough with your ‘thank-you’s.’” He grunted back.

     “But, _why?_ Am I not allowed to express my thankfulness?”

     “You can express your _thankfulness_ when you’re back with your bloody mother and brother.”

     Sansa wanted to scream with frustration. Why was he always so hateful towards her! All she did was say a simple “thank-you.” She was being courteous, yes, but not overly courteous the way she used to be in King’s Landing.  Courtesy may be a woman’s weapon, but it wouldn’t win over the Hound’s affection. Sansa stopped as she removed her bedroll from Stranger. Did she even want his affection? _No. But if he could be a little less harsh towards me this trip will be a little more bearable_ , Sansa thought. She also grabbed two apples and ate them on her bedroll. By the end of this journey, she would be dying for a hot meal and a featherbed.

 

* * *

    

     The Hound’s bedroll lay a few feet from hers, and without having something to eat he lied down and quickly drifted off to sleep. Sansa wasn’t particularly tired anymore, so she made her water behind a nearby tree, and then began to play with her hair until her lord husband woke promptly at sundown. He got up, stretched, and went to go make his water as well. Unlike Sansa who hid herself behind a tree, she was shocked to see that he could make his water right where she could see him! Granted she didn’t see anything, thankfully, but she blushed madly at his rudeness.

     “Pack up your bedroll, we’re leaving.” He said to her. He then packed up his bedroll, and walked over to the black stallion. Stranger nickered as his master approached him, and Sandor proceeded to scratch the horse affectionately behind the ears and whispered to him. Stranger was the scariest rogue horse Sansa had ever seen, and was surprised to see how such a beast could even be affectionate towards his master. He fed him some oats from his hand from the saddlebag, and began to brush him down thoroughly. Sansa followed suit and rolled up her bedroll and approached Stranger, who then squealed at her and almost trampled her under his massive hooves.

     “Woah, _woah!_ What are you doing girl?!” Sandor yelled as he tried to calm the squealing war horse.

     “I was only trying to attach my bedroll, and he went crazy!”

     “You don’t just approach a horse without them knowing, are you _fucking stupid, girl?_ Do you want to get trampled to death?”

     “I was only trying to do the right thing! I didn’t know he was so ill-tempered!”

     “Well you better learn fucking quick if you want to keep your pretty little bones intact.” He paused, running his hands through his hair and scratching his head out of frustration. He sighed and turned to her and said, “Come here, I’ll show you how to do it right. I’ll only tell you once so you better listen carefully.” His scars twitched grotesquely in the late afternoon sun.

     Sansa lifted herself off the ground from where she was nearly stomped on, wiped her eyes, brushed her skirts off, and walked towards his side. If Sansa didn’t know any better, she could have sworn she could have heard the slightest bit of sympathy in his tone. Her backside throbbed from her fall, but she knew better than to complain out loud.

     “Here, take these and hold out your hand to feed him. Also make sure he sees you before you approach him,” he said, and he placed some oats in her hand. Tentatively Sansa said, “Hello Stranger,” and walked towards his front to hold out the oats. Stranger looked at her, snorted as if was disgusted and began to eat the oats out of her hand. _Stranger is just about as ill-tempered as the Hound_ , Sansa thought. The feeling of his teeth and tongue on her delicate palm tickled, and she let out a little giggle.

     “What’s so funny?” The Hound asked.

     “It tickles!” Sansa replied, giggling a little more. She then took another step towards the black beast, and began to pat its head and scratch behind the ears like she had seen his master do minutes before.

     “What are you doi-” Sandor cut himself off, at first afraid that Stranger would try to attack her again. He stood in place as Stranger let the little bird pet him and nickered at her in response.

     “There, there. You aren’t so bad aren’t you?” Sansa cooed. Stranger then snorted and nudged his head up against her. “Yes yes, you’re a very handsome horse aren’t you?” Sansa giggled.

     “He’s not a little pony, you know,” Sandor snorted, almost disappointed in Stranger for showing so much affection towards the little-bird.

     “He’s not very scary when he’s like this. I think he likes me now,” she replied with a little smile.

     “Maybe,” he replied, and proceeded to lift her up onto Stranger. Every time he picked her up it was without warning, and always startled her. She wasn’t going to say anything because she knew he would laugh at her if she said something like: _“I’d like you to tell me when you pick me up by the hips to put me on your war-horse. And maybe when you do if you could be a little gentler when you do it I would be very grateful.”_ Sansa almost laughed out loud to herself, but refrained.

 

* * *

    

     As they made their way out of the woods and onto the Kingsroad, the sun hung just above the horizon, large and burning red. They snacked on dried meat and cheese as Stranger trotted along.

     “We’ll ride through the night until late morning again, rest, and make camp at sundown. By then we’ll be at a good distance away from King’s Landing.”

     “Do you think men were sent out after us?” Sansa asked nervously.

     “Probably, but not until they realized we were gone, which was probably by late morning today. We’re probably a day or two ahead of anyone looking for us, and they will probably stop looking in a few weeks or so. But by then you’ll already be safe with your mother and brother. And if the Lannisters do send anyone, it wouldn’t be anyone skilled because they’re more preoccupied with Joffrey’s wedding than a traitor’s daughter and a craven.”

     “Oh. So do you know where my mother and brother are?”

     “Last I heard, at Riverrun for your grandfather’s funeral. But if not, the farther and faster we head north the sooner we’ll know. You can’t miss an entire army.”

     “Oh.” Sansa said, shocked at the news. She had never met the Lord of Riverrun but felt sad that she wasn’t even told about his passing. Sansa then fidgeted in the saddle and said, “Once we’re somewhere safe will we um... _consummate the marriage?_ ” She asked, her voice cracking at the last words. Ever since they left the Red Keep she was constantly thinking about _when_ he was going to bed her. Was she going to find him on top of her in the middle of her sleep, or would it just happen at random? He made no moves to indicate that he was going to, but she knew it _had to happen_.

     “Didn’t I already tell you that there will be no bedding?”

     “What do you mean? I thought you wanted to…” She swallowed, “I thought you wanted to…wanted to do _it_ somewhere safe…” Sansa stammered.

     “When I said, ‘there will be no bedding,’ I meant there will be no buggering bedding. Is it that hard to understand girl?” He seemed to growl back at her.

     “I just don’t understand, isn’t the marriage supposed to be consummated? Septa Mordane said if the marriage isn’t consummated, under the light of the Seven it isn’t--”

     He cut her off. “This buggering marriage wasn’t even supposed to happen anyways. When we get to your buggering mother and brother they’ll find your maidenhead still intact and you’ll be free to marry someone more worthy of your birthright instead of a lowborn dog like me.” He said, his voice sounding graver towards the end.

     “What! Why? Do you not want to be married to m--”

     “Enough with your buggering chirping. When we get to your mother and brother they’ll thank me for not ruining their precious little bird and I’ll leave with my head and possibly a fat purse.”

     Sansa didn’t question him any further. In a fortnight or two she would be Sansa Stark once more. Although she felt relieved, she was terribly confused by the Hound’s decision to not complete the bedding. As these thoughts seemed to roll restlessly around her mind, Sansa leaned her head against his cool breastplate and fell asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Stranger nickered as his master approached him...” A nicker sound is produced when a horse creates a vibrating sound with his mouth closed using the vocal cords. When a horse nickers quietly, and moves towards a horse or person, he is saying “hello” - definition / description from Polo Pony Sounds. 
> 
> I really like Stranger/Sandor’s dynamic, and I love making the parallel between Sansa and Stranger and Sansa and Sandor. Also what man or beast wouldn’t love to get affection from Sansa?
> 
> These next chapters will be lot’s of plot / Kingsroad traveling so bear with me. Next stops will be the Ivy Inn and the Inn at the Crossroads.


	6. Ivy Inn on the Kingsroad

     They had stopped by a stream to set up camp for the night, both their bodies aching from the strenuous days of what seemed like endless riding. Her hair is messy auburn tassels. Even though her dress was stained, her hands and face dirtied, and still very obviously a highborn maiden, something about her looked _wild_. If she had been dressed all in furs and pants he might have mistook her for a wildling spearwife. He remembered how he heard someone say that wilding’s call people who have auburn hair “kissed by fire” and are considered lucky. But, Sansa Stark was far from lucky. Kissed by fire, _my ass_ , he thought.

     He thought about how if they stayed in King’s Landing, and became man and wife as they were expected to. _She would probably be with my child by now_ , the thought flashing across his mind. The thought caused something to swell inside him, an emotion unknown to him. He quickly grabbed his wineskin and took a last sip, then dropped it to the forest floor. Thoughts like that often come to him moments before he enters sleep, and startle him awake.

     Sandor remembered how Sansa asked him if he didn’t want to be married to her. The little bird couldn’t fathom how _badly_ he wanted _her_. All of _her_. The feel of her skin under his calloused fingers, her naïvety, her lust, her maidenhead, her _song_. But Sandor knew better than that. Those things were never meant for him. At birth when she came out cockless it was fated that she’d marry some buggering highborn northern lord. She was promised to the heir of the Iron Throne. She was supposed to be queen and raise princes and princesses, but instead got a vicious monster. And now _him_.

     He was rough, rude, and probably the ugliest man in all of Westeros, next to the Imp of course. But he was no Joffrey. He was unworthy, a scarred old hound. The small council knew this and forced them to marry anyways. The only one who objected was _Littlefucker_ , the name burning in his mind. It was no secret that Littlefinger loved Catelyn Stark as a boy, it was practically common knowledge at this point. But Sansa was no Catelyn. S _he’s far more beautiful_ , he thought. _He probably intended to steal her away himself._

     He knew that in King’s Landing she would be comfortable, with her feather bead, lemon cakes, and silks. But not far from safe. All Sandor knew was that as long as she was with him, he’d keep her safe. It was his duty as her lord husband, the title “lord” making him internally snort, but ever since he saw her at Winterfell two years ago he felt the unexplainable urge to protect her. She was weak, and he knew so many that would feel great satisfaction in hurting her. Joffrey took pleasure in making her life miserable, and if they had stayed Sandor knew that it wouldn’t end there. There was still Cersei, Ser Ilyn Payne, Blount, Merryn, Tywin Fucking Lannister, and _Gregor_. Once Gregor heard the news of their marriage he would rush to King’s Landing to get his hands on the little bird. _He’d rape her and kill her_. There would be nothing worse than that, _unless he let her live_.

 

 _I’ll keep her safe_.

     He vowed it on his wedding day and everyday afterward. _I’ll keep her safe._

 

     Sansa was thrown into the game without volition, only to return to the madness once she was reunited with her mother and brother at Riverrun. He thought about telling her they’d be going to Riverrun but actually just take a ship across the narrow sea to escape the war of five, now four kings. They would reach Riverrun in a fortnight, it would be over then.

     When they got to Riverrun the little bird would without questioning ask him to stay even though their marriage would soon be denounced. She’d probably ask him to be her sworn shield like the buggering knights in her songs. He would save himself some pain and say no and leave her life forever. She’d be Lady Clegane no more, but no longer Lady Stark soon after. She’d be wedded and then bedded to create an alliance to strengthen the Northerner’s cause. She was only a pawn in the game, but he couldn’t tell if whether he was a pawn or a player either. He’d leave Riverrun, find Gregor, kill Gregor, and then probably leave westeros for good. That was his plan.

 

* * *

 

     “Will we be reaching an inn anytime soon?” She asked.

     “You ask that every bloody day and my answer is the same: There should be one up the road, and even if there is one, it would be too dangerous to stop because of the possibility of running into Lannister men or someone identifying us. You can wash up in the stream just fine.” He lectured her.

     “ _Please_. I have not complained this whole trip, and this is all I ask of you my lord. We could both benefit from a hot meal, a proper bed. and a bath. It has been so long since I’ve had a bath.”

 

     “We’ve only been riding a little more than a week, you’ll survive without a bath.”

 

     “But Sandor, _please!_ ”

 

    Both of them were surprised at the sound of his name. She had never called him by his first name before, only “my lord” and sometimes “ser.” To others he was “The Hound” but never Sandor. Sandor was surprised in that she even used his name in desperation, and he also couldn’t recall the last time even called him by his first name. He was “Clegane” or “The Hound” or “Dog.” _She was truly desperate for a bath._

 

     “What did you just call me?” He strode over to her.

 

     “Sa- _Sandor_.” She stammered at first but said his name curty. Sansa looked up at him towering over her, for a moment she was frightened, but her expression relaxed and she continued with a unsweetened tone: “That is your name _isn’t it?_ Are you going to say I can’t call you that? Or would you rather me call you the _hound?_ ”

 

     He took a step back, shocked at the little birds words, his face twisting into an ugly grimace. The burns on his left side twitched uglily.  _She just fucking told me off. Sansa fucking Stark may have some wolf in her after all._ But he wasn’t in the mood to be tested at the moment, and grabbed her sharply by her forearm and pulled her close to him. “Don’t try to be wise with me _girl_. Your sigil may be a direwolf but don’t think you’re some tough she-wolf bitch now that you’ve been on the road a time. You have as much wolf in you as Joffrey does stag, _remember that_.” With that he let go, walking away. Tomorrow he forearm would bear a big purple bruise, she was sure of it.

 

     “You’re _awful_.” Sansa choked, walking back over to the stream where she sat for hours until the sun left the sky.

 

* * *

 

 

    They rode for the next two days in silence.

    He knew that he maybe was overly harsh with her, but he _had_ to be. It wasn’t him to be as sweet and polite as a lemon cake. The world was awful, and Sansa Stark was learning that to slowly. Life wasn’t a song, and by the time she realized it, it would be too late. After everything she had been through, she didn’t deserve to be treated that way, but if The Hound ever knew about gentleness and kindness, those feelings were long forgotten. When his face was shoved into the brazier he did just not loose half of his face, that was for certain.

 

* * *

 

 

    As if the god’s were giving an opportunity to redeem himself to the Stark girl, a town came into view, Sandor had stopped there many times before. The Ivy Inn on the Kingsroad was no stranger to him. He sighed. He could try to redeem himself now, or never. He didn’t choose the latter.

 

    When they stopped in front of the inn, and Sandor unhorsed, Sansa smiled genuinely for the first time in a long time. After seeing that Sandor felt that the danger of stopping here would be worth it.

    Sandor barked at the stable boy to not touch Stranger, and that he’d be down to take care of him after they were settled.

    “Pull up your hood, don’t look at anyone, don’t let anyone see your hair, do you hear me? Don’t talk to anyone, let me do the talking hmm?” He said as he pulled up his own hood, shrouding his features in a dark shadow.

    “I understand.”

    With that holding their bedrolls and saddlebags under both arms, Sandor kicked the Inn door open with his foot. Sansa almost giggled aloud. Kicking seemed to be his prefered method of door opening.

    “I need a room for two, and a hot bath for m’wife.” He said.

    “It’ll cost you---” The innkeeper said, Sansa unable to hear the last part over the roar from the Inn’s long dining hall table.

    They were brought up to their room, and a soon as they entered Sansa rushed to the bed and jumped face first onto it, squealing with happiness, kicking her feet into the air. For a moment, Sandor just let himself watch her as she rolled around and giggled on the bed. It was no featherbed that was for sure. It was filled with hay. The entire room felt slightly damp and smelled musty but Sansa Stark had not a care in the world. The room could smell like horse shit and she’d think it smelt like roses picked from Highgarden as long as it meant a hot bath and somewhere to sleep that wasn’t the outdoors.

    “I’m here with the bath m’lord.” One of the Inn’s maid’s said. Sansa’s bath was brought in and a fire was lit in the hearth.

    “I’ll be downstairs. Be done in an hour, I’ll bring your supper up for you. Lock the door, and don’t open it for anyone.” With that he turned on his heel and closed the door behind him. Sasna walked over to the door and locked it, and turned to her bath. Quickly, she removed her cloak, riding boots which were caked in dirt and mud, stockings, dress and smallclothes, then walked straight into the bath. She didn’t care that the bath was a little too hot, or felt grimy. It felt _good_. And for the first time in a while Sansa was able to enjoy an hour of solitude and quiet by herself. When she had scrubbed herself pink and raw, and the dirt freed from her hair, she left the tub, and took out a fresh pair of clothes from the saddlebags, dressed and waited for Sandor as she brushed her fingers through her long auburn locks.

    There was a knock on the door, “It’s me, open up.” Sansa heard Sandor say. She got up and unlocked the door. Sandor handed her a plate of warm food and a goblet of wine. Give me your soiled clothes, I’ll have them washed.” Sansa placed the food and wine on the small table, and handed him her dirty clothes. She was left alone again.

    The meal consisted of greasy chicken, mashed potatoes and onions, a modest meal. _This is probably better than what the smallfolk are eating right now. They’re probably just eating potatoes, or onions_ , Sansa thought. Once she finished her meal, Sandor knocked on the door again to let him in.

    “You finished with you meal? Give me the dishes to leave outside to door.”

    “Yes.” Sansa gave him the dishes to leave outside.

    “Are you going to bathe my lord? The water is still warm.” Sansa asked.

    “Are you trying to tell me I _smell_ like a disgusting old dog girl?”

    “No! I just thought after all this riding you might want to bathe too.. It felt very nice to take a bath after so long.” Sansa said, blushing at his brusqueness.

    “Just say it, I fucking stink.”

    “You..” Sansa paused “You don’t smell very pleasant.” Sansa said, blushing at her own rudeness this time. He laughed heartily in response.

    “What!” Sansa retorted, “You said to be truthful and I was! You should take a bath!”

    Sandor roared with laughter. “Aye, aye. I’ll take a bloody bath if _pleases you_ little bird. I still won’t allow you to leave the room though, are you sure you want me to take a bath?”

    “Yes.” With that Sansa pulled one of the creaky dining chairs to the window so that she could look out as the big, foul-smelling, hulking man in the room could enjoy his bath.

    He removed his cloak, then his mail and armor, riding boots, breeches, and undershirt until he was down into nothing but his smallclothes. Lifting his arms over his head, he stretched out his body, his spine popping in multiple places, his neck cracking each time he moved it to the left or right. His smallclothes followed suit. These popping and cracking sounds were common to Sansa, often hearing them every morning when he rose, and after a long day’s ride before they went to bed. Sansa forgetting that he was undressing, cocked her head towards his direction. Her neck seeming to lock in place.

    Sandor’s back was towards her, and Sansa was thankful that he didn’t catch her in the act of accidentally peeping on him. His back was wide and covered in thick, toned muscle, and he was _covered in hair_. From what she could see at her angle he had more hair on his chest, stomach and legs than he did on his back, and arse, but he was _very hairy_. Sansa knew that men had body hair, but her brothers were too young to have body hair that she would have seen, and Sandor’s hair was so thick and black. He was _definitely_ a man. Sansa turned her head away, her face as red as a pomegranate. She wondered if Ser Loras had hair like Sandor’s, _no, most likely not_. Once she heard him lowered himself in the tub Sansa exhaled, feeling like a weight was removed from her chest.

    “You can stare all you want girl, I don’t mind.” Sandor chuckled.

    “What! I was _not_ staring at you, I was looking out the window!” Sansa replied. His back was towards her how could he had known?

    “I felt you staring. Have you never seen a man naked before little bird?” He teased.

    “ _Of course not!_ ” She started, feeling the heat rising across her face and chest once more. Sandor chuckled and then murmured something to himself, and continued to enjoy his bath. When she heard him rise out of the bath she made sure her eyes stayed fixed on the window. She heard him dress, and heard the bread creak under his weight.

    His arms were above his head, and he was wearing a fresh pair of breeches and a tunic. His breaths were even and his eyes were closed. He looked peaceful. _Although he may not admit it, he’s probably very glad he stopped here_ , she thought. Delicately, Sansa lifted herself off the chair and blew out the candle so that the only light in the room came from the hearth and moonlight from the window. As gently as possible she went under the covers to try not to disturb him. She remembered how Robb told her to let sleeping dogs lie, so she did.  
 

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This is my longest chapter yet, coming in around 2,600 words total. For me, I love reading longer chapters when it comes to fanfiction, but boy, when it comes to writing them it sure is a process I’ll tell you. Give extra kudos to any fanfic that you read that has super long chapters the next time you read one!
> 
> Also, I want to give a shout out to queen_sansastark who has recently become my beta, and helped proofread/edit this chapter. She also went back to previous chapters and edited them for mistakes, so previous chapters will be re-uploaded. 
> 
> This was the first time I really tried playing around with Sandor’s internal thoughts and emotions, which was pretty hard because he has two completely different sides to him: Sandor and The Hound. On one end I want to show how, yes, he obviously cares about Sansa without making it mushy (because we all know Sandor Clegane ain’t a mushy man). On the other hand, “The Hound” is his external facade, where he acts more rough, harsh and just downright awful towards Sansa. He has his strengths and good qualities about him but they’re mostly covered up by his strong emotions of hatred and anger. What I think Sansa can do as a character is bring his good qualities out of him. It’s also hard to balance both of those personalities because their relationship is currently very underdeveloped. As a “ship” SanSan is very dysfunctional and an unhealthy relationship (or at least should be portrayed as in fanfiction) in my opinion anyways. In this fanfiction I hope to address what works and doesn’t work about this ship, and hope to create a relationship between the two characters that seems real and less OOC and AU.
> 
> Sorry if any of you feel very strongly against body hair, but Sandor Clegane is no Knight of Flowers as you know. I also feel that Sandor wouldn’t be ashamed of his body because he’s a fricken warrior and warriors have really nice bodies as you know too.


	7. Inn at the Crossroad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey on the King's Road continues, Sansa and Sandor stop at the Inn at the Crossroad before continuing their journey.

     Sandor awoke later than he anticipated, getting a good night's rest for the first time in a long time. His sleep was dreamless. Nightmares didn't plague his subconscious. Gregor did not come to him in his sleep. He felt at peace. When he didn't feel the little bird next to him, he was startled awake.

     "Sansa?" He called, his voice thick with fatigue.

     "Yes?" She nervously chirped.

     Sandor pushed himself out of the sheets and saw her sitting by the hearth, needle and thread in hand.

     "What hour is it?" He asked as he stretched his arms above his head, then rubbing his eyes.

     "Almost noon."

     "Shit." Sandor got up to open the window of their dim and musty room.

     "It seems that you slept well my lord."

     "Aye. Haven't slept like that in ages." He proceeded to unlace his breeches and make his water out the window. Sansa was used to his discourteous tendencies by now, and didn't blush at the sound.

     "I'm glad to hear. I had some of your tunics and breeches washed while you were asleep. They were quite tattered so I decided to mend them. I hope you don't mind?" Sansa said, holding one of the tunics up for him to see. He walked over to her and took the tunic from her, looking at the refined needlework, and then at her. Her hair was down, and her curls, although messy from sleep, framed her face in a lovely way. Her features also seemed to be sharper, losing much of the baby fat. Sandor couldn't tell if it was from the lack of proper nourishment, or if she was finally growing into herself. The way sunlight made her hair and eyes shine, and the freshly mended tunic in his hands, made Sandor feel as if Sansa Stark was his wife in truth in that moment.

     "You didn't need to." "I missed my needlework, I don't want my skills to be unpracticed, so it was my pleasure. I'll be done with your other tunic and breeches soon." She smiled.

     "Okay." He said, putting on his cloak to hide his features. "I'm going to get something to eat, I'll bring you up yours when I'm done."

     Sansa only nodded, completely immersed with the task at hand.

* * *

 

     Some days were better than others. Depending on Sandor's mood, the long hours of constant riding were tolerable. If Sansa even uttered the wrong word, his mood would sour awfully and ruin the rest of the day's ride. Often she wasn't at fault. She could say something about how it looked like it was going to rain and he would go off on her, telling her to stop chirping, and that he knew it looked like it was going to fucking rain. Or if the weather was nice, and she expressed how she was happy that they weren't getting soaked, he would also go off on her. She was also learning to challenge him during these times. She stopped apologizing for her "chirping" and began to chastise him for chastising her. Sansa also stopped crying as often. The Hound's harsh words were becoming easier to swallow.

     Other days were peaceful, filled with friendly exchanges. Sometimes he would compliment her, or teach her how to do something like make a fire or skin a rabbit. These things made Sansa uncomfortable at first, but she knew his intentions were good. On the Kingsroad, her sewing skills useless for survival.

     At these times she even allowed herself to admire him, always positioned on his good side. She listened intently to what he had to say to her. 

* * *

    Sometimes they'd stop in a meadow for a while to snack on a spoiling apple or game that Sandor had caught. Sansa would take off her riding boots and let the soft earth tickle her toes and feet. While he sharpened his sword with a whetstone, or polished his helm, she'd make flower crowns or braid wildflowers in her hair. On days like those, the sky was a crisp blue, with tiny clouds peppered across the sky. The grass was a beautiful green, and the wildflowers were a variety of different pinks, purples, reds, yellows, and white. Sandor enjoyed listening to her sing as they did their separate tasks. Back in King's Landing he would chastise her for loving songs about knights and fair maidens, but on such beautiful and peaceful days he welcomed those songs.

* * *

     There were awkward times. When Sansa's moonblood came, she panicked. Surely, Sandor had packed everything with calculation and consideration for the possible troubles they would face on their journey: cold, hunger, and danger. Feminine problems were overlooked in the equation.

     Sansa woke with an ache in her lower back and in her core. She propelled herself forward and looked down to see that the front of her dress was completely stained with blood. She was sticky and smelled, and she didn't know whether or not she should wake Sandor or try to wash the embarrassment out of her dress alone. It was no use.

     "Sandor. Sandor." Sansa touched his shoulder to rouse him from sleep. His leg kicked outward and he snarled, "What is it?"

     He rose from his bedroll, still bleary eyed from sleep, "What's wrong? Why the fuck are you waking me?"

     "I--I uhm."

     "Spit it out girl, did you wake me up for nothing?"

     "My moonblood came and I don't know what to do." She sniffled, trying to keep the tears at bay. She wished her moonblood would disappear. He looked down at her dress and his eyes widened; he had forgotten about women and their moonbloods. _You dumb fucking hound, of course you forgot about something like this._ Sandor was amazed how women could go through such pains every turn of the moon. _They bleed out for a week straight and don't die._ It was beside him to understand how things actually worked.

     "What do you need me to do?" He asked, as calmly as possible.

     "I need to…bathe, and try to wash the stains out of my dress. I also need…rags to put in my small clothes…" She looked away from him.

     "There's a stream nearby where you can wash. I'll find something you can use for rags." She washed herself uncomfortably in a freezing stream as her lord husband stood guard, waiting until she was done so she could change into the last fresh pair of clothes that she had.

     For the rest of the week her whole body ached, and they often had to stop so Sansa could relieve herself. In her sleep Sandor watched her toss and turn and groan in discomfort. The only thing that helped with the ache was riding atop Stranger. Hopefully they'd be with her mother before the next turn of the moon.

* * *

     Eventually, the ache in her thighs and backside lessened, and her feet became harder and calloused. Each day became more bearable, until she didn't mind anymore. But, she never forgot what it was like to have a hot bath or sleep in a featherbed, rather than a bedroll on the hard earth.

* * *

     A week later they stopped at the Inn at the Crossroad, the place resurfacing many distant and dormant memories in Sansa. It was the same Inn where she, Arya, her father, and his men stopped along with King Robert Baratheon and the royal retinue. It seemed like a lifetime ago: leaving Winterfell and coming to King's Landing for the first time. She was only a girl then. Only if she could have known what was to come. _So foolish and stupid_ , Sansa thought.

     She remembered how Nymeria attacked Joffrey, how Sansa lied for Joffrey because she was so _moonstruck_ over him. Even after Lady was killed she still made herself believe that he was the prince she has always dreamed of. She had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father's head. _Sansa would never make that mistake again._

* * *

     Inside the Inn Sandor made her wear a headscarf along with her cloak to conceal her looks, just in case someone recognized her. Granted two years was a long time, but Sansa Stark's looks were unforgettable. With her hair completely hidden, he allowed her to dine with him in the common room. They heard stories of how Lady Catelyn Stark arrested the Imp, Tyrion Lannister there, and news from Riverrun. Edmure Tully was going to marry one of Walder Frey's daughters because Robb Stark broke the vow he made with Lord Frey at the beginning of the war. He had married some Westerling woman. The Kingslayer was held captive by the "Young Wolf," and the northerners seemed like they had a good chance at winning the war.

     "Will we be going to The Twins instead of Riverrun now?" Sansa asked when they were back in their room.

     "Suppose so. But this whole wedding doesn't sound like a good idea. The Late Walter Frey is not a man you want as a friend."

     "Why not? Uncle Edmure is now the Lord of Riverrun and the warden of the Riverlands. Shouldn't Lord Frey be fortunate that Uncle Edmure is wedding one of his daughters? She'll be Lady of Riverrun and bring honor to her house."

     "Is that what you think girl? Open your eyes. Being united to House Tully once may have been beyond belief to the Late Lord Frey, but having your daughters betrothed to one of the strongest and oldest families of all of Westeros is another thing entirely. His daughter was supposed to be Queen of the North, and your brother broke that promise."

     "What are you trying to say? I don't understand," Sansa said, her stomach tightening uncomfortably. She didn't like where this conversation was going, or what its possible long term implications could be.

     "You really still are a little bird. Can't you see? Uncle to the King of the North won't be enough for him. Uncle to the King of the North and a northern princess just might be what Lord Frey is looking for. Lord Frey is a fickle and greedy man. He does what he pleases and gets what he pleases. Once we reach The Twins, which will probably be before the wedding, your mother will find out that our marriage hasn't been consummated. She'll probably weep and thank the gods, and you'll probably marry one of Lord Frey's sons to undo your brother's misdoing."

     For a while Sansa was silent, swallowing his words until they became a pit in her stomach. She was Sansa Stark, supposed to be Sansa Baratheon queen of King Joffrey Baratheon; now she was Sansa Clegane. In less than a week she would be Sansa Stark once more, and then possibly Sansa Frey. Her head spun. _No one will ever marry me for love_ , she thought.

     "Why are you allowing me to marry another man? Mother never thought highly of the Freys, and even though you're lowborn, the Freys are only marginally better," Sansa asked.

     "Because it's the _right_ thing to do, girl. You should be dancing and singing in happiness that you'll be free from the likes of me soon." He replied, his tone emotionless. There was silence for a long time after that. Even though Sansa didn't want to be married to The Hound, she didn't like the idea of marrying a Frey either. If this war between four kings was a game, Sansa was only a pawn, her birthright her only valuable attribute. She was but a plaything. In all the calculated moves that she was a part of--the death of her father, the alliance between the Lannisters and the Tyrells--her marriage with Sandor Clegane was a miscalculation. It was something unanticipated. Her marriage to him brought her out of the game. That was something Joffrey didn't calculate.

     He meant to torment her, but he ended up saving her, in a way. The Tyrells wanted her to marry Ser Loras, the Lannisters would have married her to someone of their choosing to gain control of the North, the Freys also wanted the North. Sandor's surname tarnished hers, which made her less desirable, and as a married woman she was useless. All of Westeros saw her as Lady Sansa Clegane; it didn't matter if her brother was King of the North. Her only asset now was her maidenhead, which was thankfully, and strangely, still intact. It was all she had left.

     "What will you do, my lord? After we reach The Twins and are no longer married," Sansa asked, her tone flat.

     "Does it bloody matter? Let's just get to the Twins in one piece and then we can talk about it."

     "So you already know. Will you fight for Robb?"

     "Why would I fight for the 'Young Wolf'? Until recently I was a Lannister man, or have you forgotten?"

     "You were never a Lannister man, I know that." Sansa said, placing her hand gently on his forearm. He pulled away.

     "You know nothing."

      "No, I _do_ know. You never _liked_ being Joffrey's dog, or working for the Lannisters. They made your brother a knight, the same person who shoved your face in--"

     " _Enough_ woman. Say anymore and I'll--" It was her turn to cut him off.

"The Lannisters are awful people, and you saw that while others continued to follow them blindly. You stood up for me when I was treated unjustly because you _hate_ tyrants. That's why we're here, that's _why_ we're on our way to The Twins to my mother and brother, isn't it?"

They were silent for a long time after that, Sandor's gaze fixed on the hearth's flames. He would never say yes, but Sansa knew that was the truth.

"So you won't be fighting for Robb, my lord?"

"Most likely not." He'd leave her.

"Would you be my sworn shield then?" She asked, the question just above a whisper.

"What married woman needs a bloody sword shield?" He scorned, looking away from the flames and at her. Illuminated by firelight, his burns looked acutely hideous.

"I don't know."

"What do you want, Sansa Stark, tell me." It wasn't question. It was a _demand_.

"I don't know," she whispered.

     Thoughts swirled around their minds. Nothing could be said, the words turning into smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Once, she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father's head. Sansa would never make that mistake again.” & "No one will ever marry me for love" - Quotes from ASoIaF by GRRM. I really want to try to make this fan fiction as realistic as possible, staying true to the books and the HBO adaptation. GRRM is a killer with his quotable quotes, pun intended.
> 
> Many post-Blackwater AU's consist of many chapters filled with "life on the Kingsroad" if I may call it that, and I don't know if I necessarily want to write chapter after chapter of snippets of traveling. So for the next few chapters I'll try to condense little "episodes" on the road to The Twins into one or two more chapters. And then off to The Twins we go!
> 
> Moonbloods happen guys. And if you have forgotten a moonblood is a woman's period.
> 
> Thanks as always to queen-sansastark for editing!


	8. The Twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue between Sansa and Sandor as they approach the Twins. Reasonable doubts ensue.

     Sandor woke to the little bird nestled in his chest, their bodies intertwined with one another.

     He was startled by the intimacy they shared. She was deeply asleep, her chest gently rising and falling with each breath, her auburn curls spilling wildly around her.

     Sometimes he'd wake with the length of her body pressed into his front, the throb in his small clothes causing him to wake. He'd often leave the room to relieve himself in privacy.

     But this was different. Sandor Clegane suddenly felt acutely uncomfortable and rose out of bed. The sun had yet to rise.

     "Sandor?" Sansa asked, her voice thick with sleep. When she called out for him like that he felt completely drawn to her, like a moth to a flame. His name was a often a question: are you there? Where are you going? The little bird knew she was safe in his presence and was often worried when he would wake so abruptly and go to leave the room.

     "I'm here, little bird. Just needed a drink."

     "Mm, okay." Sansa mumbled into the sheets, as she pulled them around her. She was fast asleep once more.

     Sandor didn't know what would kill him first: the intimacy they so briefly shared, or his lust for her. Slowly, emotions that he didn't know how to deal with were beginning to consume him the way wildfire engulfs a forest. At first the feelings were merely trivial, ignorable even. But, in moments like these he felt as if he was a pile simmering coals and Sansa was oil that set his body aflame.

     He understood how to deal with lust, yes, but he couldn't just fuck Sansa Stark as he pleased. But, he _could_. It was his right. She was his wife, his property. His. They even had the blessing of the buggering Seven, but he wouldn't bed her. As much as he wanted to, he had to deny himself, over and over. Bedding her was what Joffrey and the whole bloody lot of them wanted. _Sansa's honor won’t be compromised just because a hungry old dog like me can't control himself_ , he thought. Once they reached The Twins he'd willingly give his wife to another man. The thought made him livid, but it had to be done.

* * *

     Sansa woke a few hours later, to find her lord husband sleeping in a chair facing the room’s only window. _He did not come back to bed,_ Sansa found the thought strange. _Why fall asleep in an old chair that’s too small, when you could sleep in a real bed?_ Tugging her cloak around her, she walked over to the hulking man asleep in the chair. She wanted to wake him, but before she could the sound from the old floorboards kicked him awake. Almost by instinct, he grabbed around his waist as if he were to draw his sword. For a moment his eyes were ablaze with fury, until they settled on her.

     “I didn’t mean to frighten you, my lord. I only meant to wake you,” Sansa chirped.

     “It’s all right.” He said, stretching out his body. With a deep sigh he ran his fingers through his long, shaggy black hair, and stayed like that for a few moments. When he was tired, or sleeping, Sansa felt as if he looked younger somehow. The lines on his face were more relaxed, and his burned side didn’t seem to twitch as much.

     “What are you staring at little bird?” He chided.

     “You, my lord,” she replied.

     “What a sorry sight I am.” He laughed to himself, then turned to Sansa.

     “How old are you my lord?” Sansa asked, feeling uncomfortably grounded in place by his gaze.

     “Is that what you’re trying to figure out? How old of a dog I am?” He laughed, “Seven and twenty girl.”

     “Oh.” Sansa said quietly. She had no clue what age he thought he was but didn’t expect him to be that young. If he hadn’t been burned she suspected he’d look much more his age.

     “Why do you ask? Is this why you woke me?”

     “Just curious my lord, I realized I never learned your age,” she said honestly. Once their conversation was finished Sansa sat on the straw bed and began to comb her fingers through her hair. Sandor watched as she tried to remove all the tangles. Sansa Stark was a girl of almost four and ten, right on the cusp of womanhood. _She might as well be the maiden herself_ , he thought quietly to himself. 

* * *

 

    It took them two days of vigorous riding after their stop at the Inn at the Crossroads to reach the Twins. Although they both silently wanted to stay at the Inn for a day longer, they needed to make haste if they were going to make it on time for the wedding.

     Sandor could sense the anxiety that was eating Sansa away as they got closer and closer to their final destination. Every hour she’d quietly ask how much farther until they reached the Twins.

     On the second day of riding, they rested upon a hill that looked over the Twins. Campfires and Northern men could be seen around the castle grounds.

     “What if they don’t want to see me Sandor? What if they turn us away?” She asked him anxiously.

     “They won’t turn us away, stop your chirping and your worrying,” he said stiffly.

     “Can we please go now? I can’t wait another moment,” Sansa asked, her voice quivering.

     “We can stop for a bloody hour, your family isn’t going anywhere.” He replied, and the conversation was dropped. Sansa’s anxiety must have rubbed off on Sandor, because he suddenly felt his heart sinking with worry. _Is this the right thing to do after all?_ He thought, _No. It must be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to keep this one short and sweet, because the next chapters are going to get quite lengthy. This chapter continues from where chapter seven left off, right before Sandor and Sansa went to bed at the Inn at the Crossroad, and the chapter begins with them waking up to each other. They only stayed around a day before they were on the move again. Also, they're getting to know each other more- I mean if you were on a journey for more than a month you'd start to get to know you're companion right? I hope this clears any confusion up! 
> 
> I've also decided to establish their ages: Sansa 13 1/2, and Sandor 27. I believe she was 14 when she married Tyrion so- I'm guessing her age is correct at this stage of the story. 
> 
> They've reached the Twins! I hope the chapter title wasn't too misleading ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading and thank-you to queen-sansastark for being a wonderful beta <3


	9. The Daughter of Winterfell Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa enter the Twins, a reunion ensues, and Sansa recalls her life in King’s Landing over the past three years. A feast is held in Sansa’s name. Warning: recollections of abuse, attempted rape, and violence towards the end of the chapter. Also, lots of dialogue.

     “Who would pass the Twin’s gate?” A man called from atop the tower.

     “The bloody Hound, Sandor Clegane. And my wife, Sansa Stark, eldest sister to your King, Robb Stark.”

     As the gate opened before them, Sansa’s heart raced. It had been three years since she’d last seen her mother and brother. She wondered what Robb looked like now and what kind of king he had come to be. And her mother: what kind of woman was she now after the loss of her husband and three youngest children? They’d be a family again. And they were waiting right across the edge of the bridge, the thought astounding her. Her journey was finally at a close.

     Sandor felt uneasy walking across the bridge, Stranger to his right, and the little bird and a Frey page to his left. They’d seek immediate counsel with Lord Frey, King Robb, and Lady Stark--along with Queen Jeyne Westerling, Lord Roose Bolton, Edmure Tully, Brynden the “Blackfish” Tully, Rolph Spicer, Smalljon Umber, Ser Wendel Manderly, and Dacey Mormont, who all together made up the king’s small counsel. Amongst the Northerners and men from the Riverlands, Sandor knew he’d be out of place because he was a Westerman, sworn to House Lannister. He’d be distrusted; even if he brought the little bird here on his own will, thus breaking his oath, the high lords would see him as an oathbreaker and disloyal, although he had joined their cause in a sense. _Bloody high lords and their bloody honor_ , Sandor cursed to himself.

* * *

 

     “Lord Sandor Clegane and his wife Lady Sansa Clegane are here to seek your counsel, your grace, my lords,” the page said.

     The room fell silent, the implication of the page’s words initially failing to register in the small council's minds. Lady Catelyn, at the sound of her daughter’s name almost instinctively burst out of her chair, only to stand frozen in place at the sight of Sansa. Robb followed suit. Their expressions were as if they had seen a ghost. “Sansa,” her mother whispered, tears streaming down her face. She looked as if she was in agony, all the pieces of her heart shattering and putting themselves back together at once. All of her children were lost to her, but Sansa had returned to her. The sight made Sansa cry.

     She ran from the table, and Sansa went to meet her mother’s embrace. Their crying faces were hidden by their veils of auburn curls. The room remained silent; all that could be heard was the two women crying into their embrace and Catelyn whispering, “Oh, Sansa, my beautiful and sweet Sansa,” over and over into her daughter’s hair.

     “What about Arya?” Her mother pulled away to look upon her daughter’s face, her eyes hopeful. Sansa could only shake her head. Catelyn sighed deeply in response and pulled Sansa into another embrace.

     “Sweet sister,” she heard Robb say, his voice much deeper than what she remembered.

     “Oh Robb!” Sansa gasped as she jumped into her brothers arms. He cradled her head into his chest and gave her kisses atop the crown of her head. “I am so glad you’re here. That you’re safe,” he whispered, giving her a squeeze.

     “I couldn’t have been here without--” Sansa paused, and turned to find her lord husband, who was still standing in the doorway, watching the scene unfold with the page.

     The mood suddenly shifted. The room became uneasily silent as all eyes fell upon Sandor Clegane, who amidst the joy of the return of Sansa Stark, was the reminder that Sansa was unrightfully wed to a man of a lesser house. He took a stiff, short step forward. Sandor could feel the heat of their scrutinous gazes upon the burned side of his face. His burns began to twitch.

     “I must thank you, Lord Clegane, for returning my sweet sister safely to us,” Robb said, as dignified as possible.

     “And I thank you as well, my lord, for returning Sansa to me. May the Seven bless you,” Lady Stark stepped in, her voice completely flat.

     Sandor wanted to say, _bugger the bloody Seven_ , but he refrained. “I only did what had to be done.”

     Lord Walder Frey stood, and began to clap slowly. “We should have a feast in honor of Lady Sansa’s, heh, _unexpected_ return,” he suggested.

    Lord Bolton stood as well. “I agree. Tonight a feast should be held in Lady Sansa _Clegane_ ’s name.”

     “I am flattered, Lord Frey, Lord Bolton, but I am undeserving of such a feast--” Sansa began.

     “Nonsense!” Lord Edmure, her uncle, exclaimed. “The return of a Northern Princess should be a large affair.”

“Heh, then it shall be done,” Lord Walder said, snickering to himself.

* * *

 

     Sansa was given a hot bath in her own temporary, private chambers, separate from Sandor. She was sure his chambers weren’t even adjacent to hers, but she was not worried about something that trivial at the moment. All she could think about was how overwhelmingly wonderful it felt to take a hot bath with oils, to be with her mother and brother, and to sleep in a real feather bed that night.

     After her bath her mother promptly came into the chambers with a new-looking dress in her arms.

     "Lord Frey gave this to me for you to wear tonight,” her mother said, revealing the dress to her. The dress was Tully blue and covered in intricate white latticework.

     “Oh it’s wonderful, Mother! I haven’t worn a real dress in over a fortnight. I will make sure to give Lord Frey my gratitude,” she said, lifting herself out of the bath to dry.

     “Oh Sansa, look at you. When you left Winterfell you were still a girl of one and ten, and now you’re truly a woman. I almost didn’t recognize you when you entered the meeting. The dirt and tangles didn’t help either,” her mother sighed, taking in Sansa’s form.

     “I can’t believe it has been that long since I left Winterfell with Father…” Sansa paused, seeing her mothers eyes filled with sadness. “I was forced to grow up in King’s Landing.”

     “And forced to marry _Sandor Clegane!_ ” her mother lamented. She walked over to Sansa and began to brush her hair. “How dare they make _my_ daughter marry someone as lowborn and awful as _The Hound?_ The Lannisters will pay for what they have done.”

     “It was Joffrey’s idea. I was The Hound’s reward,” Sansa replied.

     Her mother put the brush down. “Are you with child, Sansa?”

     “What? No!” Sansa exclaimed, her face flushing with embarrassment from her mother’s forwardness.

      “When was your last moonblood?” she pushed further.

     “A week ago.”

     Her mother sighed in what seemed like relief.

     “Sandor…did not…” Sansa paused, “consummate the marriage.”

     “ _What?!_ ”

     “We escaped King’s Landing the night of the wedding. I waited for Sandor in my chambers expecting to be bedded, but he came to me dressed in armor and gave me warm clothes from under my bed for riding . He planned the whole thing with my handmaiden. We escaped the Red Keep in the night when everyone thought we were consummating the marriage,” Sansa explained.

     “And he hasn’t consummated it since?” Her mother asked, her tone a mixture of shock and disbelief.

     “No.”

     “He hasn’t asked you to? It was his idea not to consummate the marriage?”

     “Yes. When I asked him about it, he said that he’d return me to you so that I can marry someone more worthy.”

     “I don’t believe it…” Her mother said, picking up the brush to continue untangling Sansa’s curls.

     “He never asked you to touch him? He’s never touched your breasts or woman’s place?”

     “No! Of course not!” Sansa blushed.

     “I don’t understand why a man like him would do such a thing…”

     “He’s not that _awful_ , Mother. Sure he was Joffrey’s dog, and he can be immensely rude and hurtful sometimes, but he has been very good to me. He _saved_ me.”

     “Well, this is wonderful news Sansa.” She said, braiding her hair. “I will tell Lord Frey that you are still a maid by the morrow, and your marriage with Sandor Clegane will be denounced after Edmure marries one of his daughters in three days’ time.”

     “Will I have to marry a Frey, Mother?”

     “Yes.”

     “That’s what Sandor said.”

     “What now?” Her mother helped her into the new dress. It was a lovely fit.

     “Sandor said that once we reached The Twins, you’d make me marry a Frey because Robb broke his vows.”

     “Where did you hear that?”

     “At the Inn at the Crossroad. I also heard you took Tyrion Lannister captive there.”

     “Both are true. I wish you could marry a Northern lord, possibly a Karstark, or Manderly, or even a Bolton. But yes, you _must_ marry a Frey.” She squeezed Sansa’s shoulders in reassurance. Sansa looked at her reflection in the mirror and saw her mother looking into the glass as well. She truly did look like her lady mother. High cheekbones, bright blue eyes, and deep auburn hair. All of her girlish features were gone; she was a lady now. “Let’s show everyone how beautiful you are.” Catelyn kissed Sansa atop her head, and then they made their way to the great hall.

* * *

 

     “I present to you Lady Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard Stark, Princess and Daughter of Winterfell.” Someone heralded as Sansa, her lord husband, and her lady mother entered the hall. He announced Sandor’s titles but they were lost under the Northernmen’s enthusiastic shouting and hollering. As she walked up the the main table where her brother, his wife, Lord Frey, Lord Bolton, and Uncle Edmure were sitting, everyone seemed to say, “My lady,” bowing as she passed.

     Never had Sansa felt this way before. She truly felt like royalty. Back in King’s Landing she was a hostage, a false-king’s disgraceful sister, daughter of a traitor. Here, she was a _princess_.

     At the high table, Robb sat in the middle next to Lord Frey to his left and his Queen, Jeyne, to his right. Next to Jeyne sat Lady Stark, then Sansa and Sandor. Lord Bolton sat to Lord Frey’s left while Lord Edmure and the Blackfish sat to Sandor’s right.

     The feast held in Sansa’s name was more grand than the one held on her wedding night. They banqueted on courses of honeyed chicken and roasted onions dipped in gravy; dipped sucking pig; boiled goose eggs; salted trout; wheels of white cheese; salads of sweetgrass, spinach, and plums; and Sansa’s known favorite, lemon cakes. Everything was washed down with sweet wine and mead. Sansa laughed, and she ate so much she felt like she could burst.

     That night Sansa went to bed atop a soft featherbed, and her dreams and thoughts were calmed by a belly full of food and sweet wine. She slept for the first time in what seemed like forever: in peace.

* * *

 

     Sandor awoke feeling dizzy from the amount of wine he had consumed the night before. It had been way too bloody long since he last had wine. N _ot since the Battle of Blackwater Bay_ , Sandor thought. _Seven buggering hells!_ He groaned aloud, remembering how horrified he was that night.

     Pushing the memory aside, he thought about how good it felt good to sleep with a belly full of wine on a proper featherbed. Sandor had hoped he’d never have to eat a sub-par meal with watered down ale from an inn again. The feast they had held in honor of Sansa’s return was exceptionally delicious, and obviously costly due to the wartime situation.

     After the dizziness went away, Sandor opened his eyes and was disappointed when he did not see his little bird sleeping beside him, as he had grown so accustomed to during their journey. It felt wrong without her by his side as he woke. He knew he’d better start getting used to the feeling. He rose, dressed, washed his face and mouth in a basin, and left for the council meeting that he and Sansa were asked to attend.

* * *

 

     The meeting was held to discuss Sansa’s life and how she and Sandor came to the Twins.

     “At first I was so happy to go to King’s Landing, I had dreamed of it since I was a little girl. But before we even got there, things started to turn out terribly wrong.” She described when on the Kingsroad, she and Joffrey found Arya and the butcher’s boy, Mycah, pretending to sword fight, and when Joffrey pulled out his sword and commanded Mycah to fight with a stick, Arya hit him with her stick. He threatened her with his steel, and Nymeria came out of nowhere and bit him in the arm. Nymeria ran away, and Lady and Mycah were killed as consequence. Ever since then, Arya hated Sansa, and Sansa reached her limit with Arya’s discourteousness. Sansa had her lessons with Septa Mordane while her father made Arya take “water-dancing” lessons.

     “During that time everything seemed fine. Joffrey was still the beautiful, golden prince I had always dreamed of. They held a tourney in honor of father, but…” Sansa trailed off, not wanting to continue.

     “Speak what you can. We know nothing of what happened to you, Arya, or your lord father and his men during your time in King’s Landing, so it’s important that you tell us.” “Father was stabbed through the leg by a Lannister guard, and soon after King Robert was slain by a boar. Father was arrested for treason because he believed Joffrey wasn’t Robert’s trueborn son. I wrote to you and mother, the queen made me. I begged Joffrey to grant father mercy, and he gave father mercy by beheading him in front of me after he confessed his treasons.” Sansa began to sob, and Robb put his hand reassuringly on her shoulder. “That was his _mercy_.” She wiped her eyes and knew she had to continue. She was never given the opportunity to openly mourn all that she had lost.

     “Since father was executed, I’ve been a hostage in King’s Landing, a plaything for Joffrey to torture, or Queen Cersei to torment. They _hated me_ , they _humiliated me_ , _they married me to The Hound_. I was so alone.

     “Afterwards Joffrey made me look at father’s head atop a spike. Along with Septa Mordane’s and Jory’s. Arya had been gone by then. She probably escaped when they arrested father because they never found her, or her body.

     “Joffrey was a _monster_. He ordered knights of the Kingsgaurd to slap me, and when word of Robb’s victory at the Battle of Whispering Wood he threatened to shoot me with his crossbow, and ordered me to be stripped and beaten in front of the entire court…

     “When Princess Myrcella was sent to Dorne a riot broke out and I was left behind. Joffrey ordered no men to search for me. I was about to be raped by three men when Sandor found me…Oh, it was so awful!” She began to cry again.

     “Hush now, hush. It’s alright now. What they did to you and our family is unacceptable. They will pay,” Lady Catelyn said as she cradled her daughter in her arms.

     “We will kill them all, I promise you, Sansa. _I’ll kill them all_ ,” Robb said, his hands turning into fists.

* * *

     At the end of the meeting, Lady Stark asked to have a private word with Lord Frey.

     “My lord, my daughter tells me that she remains innocent. Her husband failed to consummate the marriage.”

     “Heh, are you telling me to believe that?”

     “Yes. I can tell when my children lie, and Sansa told me truthfully about the state of her marriage. I have yet to interrogate Clegane about it, but I am taking her word for it.”

     “And why are you giving me this information?”

     “I would ask that, after Edmure and your daughter’s wedding, that you see it in your heart to marry Sansa to one of your sons.”

     Lord Frey sat back in his chair, the proposition sounding so sweet in his ears.

     “How will we know for sure that, heh, Sansa hasn’t been, heh, ruined?”

     “After the wedding I will call upon the septon to assess her maidenhead.”

     “Heh, I shall grant your request, Lady Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So-- this chapter was lots of dialogue! I told you that this next chapter would be long, I hope you all got what you wished for. 2,350+ words, woo! If you were hoping that they wouldn’t show up just in time for the Red Wedding, this chapter is my little “gift of mercy” to you. 
> 
> There are also a lot of names in this chapter, and for me reading the books and watching the HBO adaptation, the names are the most difficult part.  
> -Jeyne Westerling is Robb Stark’s wife. In the HBO adaptation her name is Talisa Maegyr, and is a noblewoman from the Free City of Volantis. For this fanfiction’s sake his wife is the Westerling woman.  
> -Rolph Spicer is a knight from House Spicer and is the castellan of the Crag for House Westerling.  
> -Smalljon Umber is the eldest son of Greatjon Umber and is the heir to Last Hearth and House Umber. Smalljon Umber is one of the thirty highborn warriors who forms Robb Stark's personal guard. He fights with this unit during the Battle of the Whispering Wood.  
> -Ser Wendel Manderly is a knight from House Manderly. He is the second son of Lord Wyman Manderly. Ser Wendel accompanies his brother, Wylis, to the muster when Robb Stark calls his banners.[1] He stays with Robb's force on the march south and is named as one of his personal guard during the Battle of the Whispering Wood  
> -Dacey Mormont is the heir of House Mormont. She is the daughter of Maege Mormont, Lady of Bear Island, and is the niece of Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Dacey rides south against the Lannisters with Robb Stark, with Dacey being numbered among Robb's battle companions and personal guards during the Battle of the Whispering Wood.
> 
> The last section of the chapter was a lot of plot- forgive me.  
> “Since father was executed I’ve been a hostage in King’s Landing, a plaything for Joffrey to torture, or Queen Cersei to torment. They hated me, they humiliated me, they married me to The Hound.” I took this from Sansa’s confession scene in the “Mockingbird” episode. I love Sophie Turner’s rendition of Sansa. She’s the one who made me fall in love with her character.


	10. The Rains of Castamere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa visits Sandor the night before the wedding, and a confession ensues. House Tully and Frey are joined.

     Sansa came to Sandor the night before the wedding. Since the feast held in honor of her name, she had scarcely seen him. When Sandor opened the door and saw the little bird waiting outside, he was taken aback. _What does she want at this hour_? 

     “Good evening, my lord. May I come in?”

     “What are you doing outside my chambers at this hour?”

     “I wanted to see you,” she replied simply. He couldn’t refuse her, so he held the door open and let her scamper inside, checking the corridor for anyone who may have seen her.

     Sandor’s room was warm from the fire lit in the hearth, and Sansa seated herself at small, modest table at the far end of the chamber. His chambers were much more bland and modest than hers, lacking any decoration or additional comforts. Sandor sat in the chair in front of the little bird and waited for her to speak.

     “Must you leave tomorrow, after the wedding?” she started.

     “I told you I’d watch your uncle and the Frey wench marry and I’d be off, didn’t I?” His tone was harsh and cold.“Must it be so soon? We’ve only been here for four days; don’t you want to rest more before you set off?”

     “Your mother gave me a nice, fat purse and sought that I had enough provisions to be comfortable on my journey. Stranger will be saddled in the morning, and after the wedding I’m off.”

     “I wish you could stay,” Sansa said, her voice just above a whisper.

     “Why? So I can watch over you and your _new_ lord husband?”

     “No! It’s just--” Sansa began, but was unable to find the words to continue. He was being so harsh with her she felt that it would be pointless to press on.

     “What is it then? Do you like having a dog like me around?” He laughed to himself, taking a sip of wine from a goblet on the table.

     “I don’t want to marry a Frey.”

     He wasn’t expecting that. Sandor sat back in his chair, took a larger sip of wine from the goblet, and waited for her to proceed.

     “I don’t want to marry a Frey. I know Robb broke his vow that mother made with Lord Walder but…” She poured herself wine and sipped from it. “I don’t want to be Lady Frey. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in this _awful_ castle and raise Walders and Waldas. I want to go _home_. I want to be with mother and Robb. I’ll never see Winterfell again,” she said sadly, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

     “Winterfell has been burnt, child. Your brother will continue with this war, and your mother along with him. You’re safest here,” he replied. It was something he had been telling himself over and over these last few days. _She’ll be safe here_ , he told himself. It was a lie.

     They both sipped on their wine until their cups were empty.

     “I also… I want to give you my jewels. Please sell them or do whatever you wish with them,” Sansa said, looking at him directly as she spoke. His burned side twitched. The firelight made them look even more ghastly.

     “I don’t need your jewels,” he said plainly, pushing the pouch away.

     “I was given these by the Lannisters. I have no need for them now,” she insisted, pushing the pouch back towards him. “I want you to have them. You’ll put them to better use than I have.”

     “If that’s what you want, little bird."

     “It is. I also want to thank you for always saving me.”

     “No need to thank me,” he said, taken aback by her words.

     “But you always have. From Joffrey’s cruelty, during the bread riots, the wedding…” She trailed off. “You tried to tell me the truth, how things really were. I know now that life isn’t a song.”

     She smiled prettily for a moment, and Sandor saw the girl that Sansa used to be. She was the girl he had first met on the Kingsroad. She was the girl who had not yet learned of Joffrey’s true nature and was not scarred by his wickedness. She was the girl whose father was not yet beheaded right before her eyes. She was completely pure, a little bird. For reasons unknown to him still, ever since he came across her, frightened by Ser Ilyn Payne, he had become enamored with the idea of her. He had sought her out in hopes of protecting and warning her before she would be completely ruined by Joffrey.

     “I had no friends in King’s Landing, only you. And I thank you. Thank you, Sandor.” With that she rose out of her chair and faced him. “I’ll pray for you on your journey. I have already given you my favor so…” She paused for a moment, her eyebrows knit in deep thought. She smiled, yet her eyes with filled with immense sadness. _He is no true Knight but he saved me all the same_ , she thought to herself.

     “Thank you, Sandor.” She leaned over and kissed him on the lips. “Good-bye.”

     Sansa didn’t look back.

     The rest of the night Sandor held his fingers to his tingling lips where Sansa had kissed him. Sansa Stark’s kiss left him burnt but nothing had ever felt so good.

* * *

     The wedding was held the next evening, and when Lord Walder presented Edmure Tully his intended, she was surprisingly beautiful.

     "Lord Edmure, I hope I am not a disappointment to you."

     "You are a delight to me, my lady." Edmure Tully smiled. The weeks leading up to this moment were torturous to Edmure, but all worry was forgotten with Roslin’s kiss.

* * *

     After the ceremony and into the dinner, they could not keep their eyes off one another. Lady Catelyn was grateful to see her brother so happy. A great roar broke throughout the hall as the bedding ceremony was set into motion, everyone completely drunk and wild. Afterwards they closed the door to the main hall.

     Sandor, uninterested in any of the excitement, stayed away from the wine. He knew that it would only amplify the dread building in his stomach. Avoiding wine would also help him keep a clear head, and from past experience he knew that navigating drunk at night was not an easy task.

     From above, a tune that Sandor had heard a thousand times since being employed under the Lannisters began to play. The room was filled with Northerners; what did they care for a Lannister drinking song? He then knew that something was about to go terribly wrong. He looked over at Sansa who was merrily chatting to another woman. Her lady mother sat nearby next to Lord Bolton.

    “And who are you, the proud lord said,

that I must bow so low?

Only a cat of a different coat,

that's all the truth I know.

In a coat of gold or a coat of red,

a lion still has claws,

And mine are long and sharp, my lord,

as long and sharp as yours.

And so he spoke, and so he spoke,

that lord of Castamere,

But now the rains weep o'er his hall,

with no one there to hear.

Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,

and not a soul to--”

     Walder Frey then lifted his hand and the music halted. “Your Grace,” he called, and Robb Stark stood.

     “I feel like I’ve been remiss in my duties. I’ve given you meat, wine, and music, but I haven’t shown you the hospitality you deserve,” Walder Frey said. Sandor scanned the room and saw Lady Stark, who seemed to be touching Lord Bolton’s arm. Lord Walder continued, “My king has married, and I owe my new queen a wedding gift.”

     Lady Stark then jumped from her chair and slapped Lord Bolton across the face and yelled, “Robb!”

     One of the Frey men unsheathed a dagger and walked over to Robb Stark’s queen and stabbed her repeatedly in the stomach.

     The massacre then began, the nothernmen too drunk to fight. Robb Stark was shot by men in the gallery by crossbow. Sansa Stark watched as northernmen all around her died. Her mother was shot by a crossbow beside her. “Mother!”

     Sandor fought off as many Frey and Bolton men as he could. He would have been dead if he hadn’t decided to leave this night. He heard Sansa scream again as she was lifted up over a Bolton soldier’s shoulder and out of the chaos. Chopping through as many men as he could, Sandor made his way out of the hall to find Sansa. Before he completely left the room, an arrow went through his thigh. He pulled it out, feeling no pain. The Hound felt as numb as he did the night of the Blackwater, completely consumed by bloodlust.

     Down the hall he could see the Bolton men carrying Sansa with a black sack over her head. They dropped Sansa to the floor as he approached them, and the Bolton men were all but pieces of themselves when The Hound was done with them. He lifted the sack from her eyes:

     “Little bird.” Her eyes were bloodshot and filled with tears. The girl was in agony.

     “Mother… Robb…” She sobbed.

     “They’re gone now, we must go.” He pulled the sack back over her head, and with some difficulty due to his leg wound, he carried her over his shoulder all the way to the stables. When they got there he lifted the sack from her head and practically threw her atop Stranger. He unfastened his black coak and put it around her.

     “Make sure your face is covered.” He said, trying to catch his breath.

     “Mother… Robb… We need to go back…” she said frantically, trying to get off Stranger. She was in complete and utter shock and couldn’t possibly fathom what was actually happening. He then climbed atop Stranger and pulled the hood over her head. Stranger burst out of the Stables, the Hound holding the Frey banner.

     “THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH!” Men began to shout.

     The Hound turned Stranger around. _Did the bloody northmen prevail?_

     “THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH!”

     They both saw Robb Stark’s body paraded atop a horse across the keep, with the head removed and replaced with that of his direwolf, Grey Wind, sewn in its place.

     Sansa screamed Robb’s name, the sound coming out as a howl. Sansa wanted to call for the heroes from the songs, for Florian and Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, but she knew no one would hear her.

    “But now the rains weep o'er his hall,

with no one there to hear.

Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,

and not a soul to hear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -THIS CHAPTER WAS PHYSICALLY PAINFUL TO WRITE. My chest throbbed as I wrote this chapter. I rewatched the Red Wedding scene again to write this chapter and it was awful. For all of you who thought this wasn’t coming, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
> 
> -Moving on from the awfulness that is the Red Wedding, I hope you enjoyed the beginning scene with Sansa and Sandor.
> 
> -“Sansa wanted to call for the heroes from the songs, for Florian and Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, but she knew no one would hear her.” Quote by GRRM from ASoIaF


	11. Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after the red wedding.

     Tyrion Lannister tottered into the small council room. His father, sister, Varys, Grand Maester Pycelle, and his nephew were waiting for him. Joffrey’s eyes shone, and the corners of his mouth were lifted up into his usual, awful smile.

     "Killed a few puppies today?" he asked Joffrey as he sat at the far end of the table.

     "Go on, show him.” Joffrey ordered Pycelle, " _Show him_." He repeated, more forcefully. Pycelle made a move to give Tyrion the scroll, but dropped it in a what was unmistakably an intentional way.

     "Apologies my lord, old fingers," he said as he wiggled his fingers. Tyrion knew that the old maester would harbor resentments for the rest of his days, probably, for imprisoning him.

     Tyrion picked up the letter from the ground, sighed, and looked at Joffrey’s smirking face as he began in monotone: "Roslin caught a fine fat trout, her brothers gave her a pair of wolf pelts for her wedding, signed, Walder Frey." Joffrey nodded frantically, and smiled maniacally.

     "Is that bad poetry, or is that supposed to mean something?"

     "Robb Stark is _dead!_ " He began to laugh, "And his bitch mother!"

     Tyrion was not expecting _that_.

     "Write back to Lord Frey, thank him for his service.” Joffrey commanded the Grand Maester.

     “Yes, yes, of course Your Grace,” he replied.

     “We also received word that Sandor Clegane and Lady Sansa were at the Twins at the time of the wedding,” Varys informed Tyrion. Joffrey’s head whipped around, the smile fading from his face.

     “ _What?!_ ” he spat.

     “My little birds have informed me that Clegane intended to give Lady Sansa back to her mother and brother,” Varys continued, the small council taken aback by the statement.

     “Why would he ever do that?!” snapped Joffrey.

     “Who knows what Clegane’s intentions where. The Stark girl was much more _useful_ here before you married her off to him.” Lord Tywin added.

     “I thought it was a _just_ punishment!”

     “Punishment!” Tyrion laughed. “Her marriage to _your loyal dog_ is probably the best thing that has happened to the Stark girl yet.” The rest of the small council hadn’t seen the way The Hound treated the Stark girl. When Lord Tyrion saw them with each other, she seemed to bring out something other than brutality in the man. He found it very strange, but also not very surprising. He also saw the way he liked to scare her, that one night on the serpentine steps. It was a queer kind of affection, if it was even that.

     “We’ll probably never find the girl again,” Varys added.

     “We’ll find him and the Stark bitch! We’ll send men out to find them! I’ll have both their heads! We’ll send The Mountain!” Joffrey raged.

     “Ser Gregor is needed here in King’s Landing. We can afford to send a few soldiers after them, but no more. Who would have known that this would be such large miscalculation on your part, Your Grace,” Lord Tywin said forcefully. Fuming, Joffrey walked out of the room.

     “Clegane’s disloyalty comes at quite the surprise. He had served Joffrey for years. I don’t see why marriage to Sansa would change him,” Cersei said, swirling a wineglass in hand.

     “Sansa Stark was born of traitor’s seed,” Pycelle added. “She probably convinced him to bring her back to her family. A Tempress!”

     “After being kicked around by Joffrey and our family for all these years? I find it most understandable,” Tyrion stated. His father rolled his eyes.

     “Even so, we’ll find them. A ugly burned man, and a highborn girl with auburn hair. If not our men, the Freys and Boltons will find them,” Cersei said, getting up to leave.

     Tyrion had seen _The Hound_ fight. Sansa Stark was priceless, someone worth protecting. They most certainly wouldn’t be getting to her without killing The Hound first.

 _Lady Stark, you may survive us yet_ , Tyrion thought quietly to himself.

 

* * *

 

    

     They rode ceaselessly into the night until the morning sun bore down their backs. When Sandor pulled Stranger to a halt, Sansa collapsed off the war horse.

     “Seven hells, girl!” Sandor exclaimed. Shocked, he unhorsed and went to the girl.

     “We have to go back…” she stammered.

     “Have you gone mad girl? We’re never going back there.” Sandor replied as he attempted to lift the girl off the ground, holding her by the wrists.

     “But, Robb…Mother--”

     “They’re dead girl. Open your eyes. They’re all dead.” He saw the confusion move across her countenance. Her eyes were dull and didn’t seem to focus on anything.

     “They had guest right.. Uncle Edmure married--”

     “Do you think Lord Frey gave a _fuck_ about guest right, girl?” He spat, giving her a shake.

     “Why…why…” she repeated.

     “Do I have to spell it out for you girl? They’re _dead_ , Sansa.”

     Sansa lifted her chin to see his face, the reality of what happened the night before finally sinking in. Her mother and brother were dead. Her brother’s bannermen slaughtered by the thousands. They lost the war. _She was never going home_. Sandor watched as she came to each realization. Sansa slipped out of his grip and her nails dug into the earth, her fists clawing at the grass. She began to cry again.

     “Why…why did they let me live? Why…” she repeated, over and over, until her voice went raw from sobbing.

     Sandor did not try to comfort her. He had never attempted to comfort anyone before, and he knew that there were no words that could possibly make her feel better. _It’s going to be alright_. A lie. It wasn’t, nothing was alright. All the Starks were dead and gone, and Sansa remained as the North’s only heir. _They’ll rip her apart. They’ll use her and she’ll be nothing but pieces by the end of it_.

     Sansa Stark was already in pieces. He knew the feeling well enough. _Heartbreak, loss, guilt, anger_. He knew that it was easy to die; he’d seen hundreds upon hundreds of men die in his twenty-seven years. Surviving was the hard part, Sandor knew. They’d survive. Whole, unwhole, broken, unbroken. And to do that, they’d have to leave Westeros.

     Hobbling, Sandor unsaddled Stranger and made a campfire. Sitting down on a log, he cut open his breeches where the arrow had entered him to inspect the damage.

     _It was bad_. The arrow had not pierced all the way through, but the wound was still deep and had yet to scab over. _It’s going to be alright_ , the lie flashed across his thoughts once more. He boiled wine in a pot and poured it over the wound in hopes that it would disinfect. Wrapping it with clean cloth he had received for his journey east, his thoughts went south. He wouldn’t be able to fight. Riding would have to be in shorter increments. The wound would fester, he knew. They couldn’t afford to stop though; Lannisters, Boltons, and Freys alike would be after their heads. Unless they came across a traveling maester, Sandor Clegane was out of luck.

     His only choice was to keep going for Sansa’s sake. He promised himself he’d keep her safe. _Her family and bannermen were massacred before her eyes. And the only one she has left is you, dog_.

     Sandor rose, and hobbled and unfurled the single bedroll next to the fire. Only one this time, he grumbled to himself. _Only if I had known_ , thoughts of guilt began to hit him the way waves crash upon the shore. I _should have stolen her from her family and that god-forsaken castle._

     Having worked with the Lannisters his whole life he understood that Lord Tywin would do anything in his power to win the war, but he never thought he’d stoop so low and kill his enemies at a wedding. It was _abominable_. From the beginning, Sandor knew that the Northerners were not going to win the war. The Lannisters would always win in the end.

     “Sansa,” he called out her, still curled up over the earth, shaking, sobbing. “You can cry, but at least do it by the fire where it’s warm.”

     The weather had been getting crisper as each day passed; autumn would be in full swing soon. _Best be out of here before winter comes_ , Sandor reminded himself.

     He called her name again, but she did not move. It was possible that she didn’t even hear him calling for her. With a sigh he rose from the log and went over to her. He knelt down and reached for her arm but was immediately smacked away.

     “Don’t touch me!” she cried, her lips curled up into a snarl, until she recognized who it was.

     “Sandor…” His name cracked in her mouth. She was still in shock for sure, he’d seen plenty of green boys go to battle and afterward be numb. However, he’d never seen a green boy look as awful as Sansa did now. Her eyes were sunken in, with deep purple bags underneath, and were swollen red from crying. Her eyes once shone bright Tully blue but were now dull, and almost lifeless. The rest of her face was caked with dried mucus and saliva. Her lips were chapped and the front of her silk dress was covered in other men’s blood. She had bruises on her arms and legs. She had probably been reliving the memory of being dragged out of the Twin’s great hall by the Bolton men, which had caused her to hit him.

     “Sandor…” She wailed, and clawed at his chest, burying herself into him.

     “I’ll keep you safe, little bird. I’ll keep you safe.” Sandor engulfed her in his arms, cradling her until she quieted. He scooped her up in his arms and placed her back down onto the bedroll, in hopes that she could catch at least an hour of sleep.

     Beside her, Sandor watched the turning leaves rustling in the wind. He thought of how they couldn’t be in a worse situation than the one they were in now. And the Starks had it right--winter was definitely coming, and it was coming for them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Weren’t expecting the small council were you? I really loved that scene in the show, especially Tyrion’s  
> “Killed a few puppies today?” line. Just offering an alternate perspective here. The first scene is a flash-forward of sorts, while the rest of the chapter happens directly after the red wedding. Sorry if that confused anyone.
> 
> -Sandor is a harsh guy-- and he’s not going to be sugar coated in my story.  
> -This chapter was mostly plot and filled with angst, bear with me for the next few chapters.


	12. Eastward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa struggles internally, while she and Sandor head Eastward.

It had still seemed very unreal to her. But the pain she felt inside was very real.

     She had lost _all_.

     Her heart was split in two, and internally she felt as if she was burning from the inside out. Sansa remembered songs from her girlhood of fair ladies dying from such heartache. Life wasn’t a song, she knew; songs had morals and lessons. But in life, songs seldom applied.

     No song expressed how endless and unbearable the pain of loss felt. The sorrow inside her had become a void, deep and black, that nothing could ever fill. The void was darkness, and it was consuming her whole. Her heart had become a night without the moon or stars, or a day without the sun. Happiness seemed to only be an allusion, like a shadow cast upon a wall. Her happiness was brief, the same way candles are blown out by the wind, and now she was left to subsist in her dark.

     Sandor Clegane worried for the girl; she barely spoke or ate, and had become awfully frail. Sansa seemed to be a ghost of her former self, her countenance taut with grief. Although her features were more sharp, and sunken in, she was still acutely beautiful.

     He had lived with grief his whole life--dealing with the pain of loss had not become easier over time, only he had learned to live with it. His pain, anger, fear, and rage consumed him; it lurked in the depths of his subconscious, and tore away at his heart until the man known as The Hound remained.

     He wanted to comfort her, to kiss her, to give her warmth until she could no longer feel any pain. He wanted to lead her out of the dark. But she was broken. Like a porcelain doll dropped on the floor by a careless child, she’d never be whole again.

     The only thing he could do was to keep her safe.

 

* * *

 

     They stopped at a brook to rest and bathe for a while before they continued their journey east. Sandor discretely tended to his worsening leg wound while Sansa was given her privacy to bathe silently in the river. He had yet to tell her about his leg. Hopefully he could find a herbalist, midwife, or even a maester once they reached the Saltpans. It worsened every day, pussing and aching. The pain was sometimes so bad he could hardly sleep.

     If the circumstances were different, Sandor would have heard his little bird singing to herself as she bathed, and he would have shouted lewd remarks at her to ruffle her feathers. He wanted to hear her laugh and to feel the warmth of her smile again. But there was silence between them, as there had been ever since they escaped The Twins.

     Once they re-mounted Stranger she finally spoke. “Where are we headed?” she asked, her voice cracking.

     “Essos, girl.”

     “Why Essos?”

     “That’s where I originally planned to go, and it’s probably the safest place because the Narrow Sea will be between us and our enemies.”

     “I have an aunt in the Eyrie, surely she’d take us in. I am her sister’s--” He cut her off.

     “Have you ever met your dear aunt Lysa girl? That woman is unstable and not right in the head,” he growled at her. “Your Aunt never sent men to help your brother’s cause, and it’s the first place anyone would look for you.”

     Sansa’s heart sunk deeper at the mention of her brother. Sansa wanted to cry, but no tears fell.

     “We’ll be safer in Essos; winter won’t reach us there. We’ll reach the Saltpans in a fortnight, and there we can find passage across the Narrow Sea.”

     He felt her nod, and they rode in silence for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter I know! It's basically a teaser for the chapters to come. Thanks for reading!


	13. The Saltpans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa discovers Sandor’s wound, while the pair make it to the Saltpans.
> 
> Warnings: graphic depictions of gore and violence. Tread lightly.

     Sansa noticed Sandor favoring his right leg when they stopped to make camp for the night. They were just over a league away from the Saltpans.

     “What is wrong with your leg?” Sansa seldom called him “my lord” anymore.

     “Just a small wound, nothing more, girl.”

     “Where did you get it? I don’t recall you being wounded.”

     “When we escaped the Twins, some bastard’s crossbow got me square in the leg, didn’t even notice it at first.”

     He was trying to make it off as if it were nothing, a mere scratch or something of the sort, but Sansa saw through his brashness.

     “Does it hurt you?”

     “Of course it hurts, but I’ve had worse.”

      He had had worse wounds but there had always been a maester around to tend to his injuries.

     “Let me see it.” It was a command.

     “You don’t need to see it.” _He was hiding it from me this whole time, he doesn’t want me to see it for a reason_ , she thought to herself.

     “Let me see it.” She stayed firm. Sandor’s brows were knit tightly, he didn’t want to cave in, but he also didn’t want to cause the girl any more worry than needed.

“Aye.” Sandor sighed, lowering himself slowly to sit on the hard earth. Sansa kneeled in front of him, with her hands placed firmly in her lap, waiting. “You really don’t want to see it, little bird.”

     “I do. _Show me_ , Sandor.” He sighed again, and began to roll up his breeches. Sansa watched as his expression turned from one of annoyance to one of pain, the further his breeches were rolled up. The bandage around his leg was old and caked with dried blood, pus, sweat and dirt, and it smelled fouler than anything Sansa had ever smelled before. By the state of the bandage and the smell alone, Sansa already knew that the wound was _very bad_. Sandor unwrapped the bandage bit by bit until the wound was brought into full view. He heard Sansa gasp and cover her face with her hands.

     The wound smelled even fouler once the bandage was removed, and was still oozing with blood and pus. Sandor looked away from the girl, and the wound, embarrassed to be in this current state.

     “Why didn’t you tell me?”

     “Because you would have had us stop somewhere, and if we stopped we could have been caught.”

     “Oh, Sandor,” she whimpered. “At least let me clean the cut for you.”

     “What do you know about tending wounds?” he muttered.

     “I watched Maester Luwin tend to my brother’s hurts sometimes. All I know are the basics.”

     “And what are those?”

     “Injuries such as these need to be cleaned right away, or else they’ll be infected.”

     "Look at it, girl. It’s already been infected.”

     “And whose fault is that!?” she shot back at him, completely furious. In that moment her anger seemed to match his. Her auburn hair was windswept and messy, which made her look _wild_ , and for a moment Sandor was intimidated by the girl. Sansa’s eyes softened, and she asked quietly, “Let me please try to clean it.”

     “Fine.”

     Sansa lifted up her dress and reached for her underskirts, ripping a piece of the fine silk and then soaking it with water from her waterskin. Tenderly, she wiped the area around the wound, applying as little pressure as possible. Sandor hissed at the contact, throwing his head back so that Sansa could not see his pained expressions. She ripped another piece of her skirts, and began the process again, but this time closer to the wound itself. Although her hands were delicate, they did not shake. Sandor looked down at her, and made an effort to watch her as she gingerly cleaned his wound for him. For a brief moment, Sandor felt as if they were what man and wife should be. Their relationship was far from loving, or compassionate, yet Sansa’s touch was so careful and considerate, as if she had treated his wounds many a time before.

     “Do you have any needle and thread, so that I might sew the wound?” Sansa asked, although she already knew the answer. Septa Mordane had always told Sansa how exceptional her embroidery was, but she had never stitched a man’s wound before. She thought that it couldn’t be too difficult.

     “No.”

     “Do you have anymore wine?” she asked again, looking him straight in the eyes.

     “No. Drank it all to deal with the pain,” he said. Frowning, she returned to her work.

     “There is another way to get rid of the rot,” Sansa replied, her voice small.

     “How?”

     “Maester Luwin once said that if a wound festered, one way to get rid of the rot is to--” She paused, looking back up into his eyes. They were filled with countless emotions: doubt, pity, and hopelessness. _To burn it_ , he could hear her finish the sentence before the words left her mouth. He knew why she could not bring herself to say it.

     “Try washing it out with some water and then wrap it up again,” he replied. Sansa nodded and quietly finished cleaning his wound. She wrapped it with multiple strips of her skirts, until the bandage seemed thick enough to keep dirt out. When she was done she rolled his breeches back down timidly, trying to not disturb the wound.

     “Thank you, little bird.”

     “I wish you had told me sooner, Sandor.” Her voice was sad. “Please don’t keep something like this from me ever again, understood?”

     “Aye. I won’t, little bird.”

 

* * *

 

     It was an hour before dawn before a group of Frey men spotted them.

      Sandor was awoken by Stranger’s loud snorts, and his hooves digging into the dirt. He wobbled getting up, unsheathing his longsword.

     “Sandor?” Sansa whispered his name.

     “Go over by Stanger girl, _now_ ,” he rasped.

     “Who goes there?” one of the men called. In the dim morning light, Sandor could make out that it was a company of five men. Three soldiers, one bannerman, and a squire.

     “Who wants to know?” the Hound called back.

     “Look, it’s the Stark girl, over there by the horse, my lord,” he heard the squire say. Sansa whimpered. The men descended the hill until they surrounded Sansa and Sandor’s camp. The bannerman stayed a close distance behind, while the squire went straight to Sansa.

     “I have orders to take you alive,” he said, grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her into him.

     “ _No!_ ” she screamed, as she clawed at the squire. Sandor could chop the squire into two but he couldn't move towards Sansa because the three soldiers encircled him.

     Stranger squealed, and the squire released Sansa out of utter shock before the stallion reared up onto his hind legs and stomped him to death.

     “We had orders to take her alive, and you dead, _Hound_ ,” one of the soldiers said. Sandor laughed in response.

     “I’ve cut down a hundred buggering shits like you,” he barked back. _The fact that there’s only three of them is like a blessing from the bloody gods themselves_ , Sandor snorted. And with that the first man charged, and as quickly as the man moved towards him, The Hound cut him from shoulder to shoulder, where he knew there would be an opening in the man’s armour.

     “Favoring your right leg Hound? Let’s see how well you can fight.” Both men came at him at the same time, and Sandor had to pivot and meet their attacks head on for there was nowhere he could run. He was able to hit both men at the same time, and while one was disoriented, he stabbed him right through the skull, and the other through the neck and into his chest.

     “ _Sandor!_ ” Sansa shrieked, as the bannerman came up behind him and stabbed him in the shoulder blade in a blind fury. He had not slept with his mail shirt or armour that night.

     He grabbed the man and they both fell to the ground, the bannerman losing grip of his dagger. The Hound punched him in the face one, two, three, four, five, six--so many times Sansa had lost count until the man’s face was nothing but a crater.

     “Sandor!” Sansa yelled as she ran towards him, holding catching his arm mid-punch. “Sandor, you’re wounded!”

     “I know, little bird,” he said, dragging himself to the nearest tree to lean up against. His face was covered in sweat and a mixture of the dead men’s blood and his own.

     “Oh Sandor…What should I do? What can I do?” Sansa asked frantically, reaching to rip up her skirts.

     “There’s nothing you can do, little bird. I’m done for,” he said, feeling the blood gush from his new wound.

     “There must be something I can do, Sandor, please! Tell me, I’ll do anything, please… _please_ …” She began to weep, her hands frantically touching his shoulders and chest, then to his face where she wiped the hair out of his eyes and began wiping the sweat and blood off with her sleeve.

     “Do you know where the heart is, Sansa?” he rasped.

     “What?” she replied, the tears flowing down her sunken cheeks. _She is so beautiful, even now_ , Sandor thought. Their faces were so close. He could see the light freckles that were speckled across the bridge of her nose and cheeks, the length of her eyelashes, the fullness of her lips.

     Sandor reached for his sword belt and removed a small dirk, placing it in her hand.

     “What do you want me to do with this?” she asked, her voice filled with confusion and disbelief. He wrapped his hand around hers and led the dagger right to his heart.

     “This is where the heart is. Remember that, Sansa.”

     “No. You’re not going to die. You’re not going to die, Sandor,” she sobbed.

     “Unless there’s a maester hiding behind this tree, I’m good as dead. Do it.”

     “ _I can’t!_ ” she wailed.

     “It’s called the _gift of mercy_ girl, do it.”

     “Sandor, I can’t. I can’t--”

     “ _Do it!_ ” He choked. “ _Please._ ”

     “Never!”

     “I should have taken you, the night the Blackwater burned. I should have fucked you, girl. I should have fucked you until you bled, at least I’d have one happy memory!” he confessed.

     Sansa was at a loss of words. The grass was golden yellow.

     “Go on, do it. _Do it!_ ” Sandor began to cry. He already knew her answer.

     Sansa lifted herself to her feet and walked over towards Stranger, picking up his heavy saddle and placing it on him.

     “Kill me!” he shouted at her.

     Sansa fastened the buckles and hopped on Stranger.

     “Kill me!” he shouted louder. “Sansa, _please!_ ”

     Sansa didn’t look back as she spurred Stranger on and rode off towards the Saltpans.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Sorry, not sorry about that cliffhanger. Many of you may have seen this coming, and for those who didn’t I hope I’m not torturing you too much. You’ll find out Sandor’s fate, along with Sansa’s in the next chapter.
> 
> -A league is 5.55600 kilometers and is equivalent to 3.45 miles
> 
> -Despite the sadness, I hope all of you enjoyed!


	14. Gentle Mother, Fond of Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor Clegane awakes.

_His voice was thick in his throat. He had called out her name a thousand times, but knew she was already gone. Her hair set ablaze against the rising morning sun. Atop Stranger, she rode into the distance until she and the sun melted into one. When the light became too much to bear, he looked to his side and felt the yellow autumn grass against his face. And above him, a bird sang._

     “Little bird,” he rasped, his voice dry in his throat. Sandor Clegane felt a waterskin against his lips and feverishly drank from it.

     “Not too fast there,” a voice said, and removed the waterskin from his lips.

     Sandor found himself in a small, dim room with spartan furnishings, and in front of him sat an older man donned in brown robes.

     “Is this the Seven Hells?” He coughed.

     “No, Ser, this is the Saltpan’s septry.”

     “ _Seven hells_.”

     He heard the man laugh.

     “Sansa,” Sandor said, trying to get up, but he was halted by the excruciating pain in his shoulder and leg.

     “Not to worry now, ser. She’s here, finishing up her bath most likely.”

     Sandor sighed in relief.

     “Who are you?”

     “I’m the Elder Brother of this Septry. You may call me Elder Brother.”

     “How long have I been sleeping for?”

     “About a fortnight.”

     “ _Seven hells_ ,” he groaned. His head felt submerged under water. _Must have given me milk of the poppy,_ Sandor thought.

     “You’re lucky to be alive,” the Elder Brother said sternly. “May it be the Seven’s will, or your own, when I saw your body brought through the septry’s gates, I thought that Stranger had already taken you.

     “Your lady wife refused to leave your side the first few days you were here, I’ll have you know. She refused to have you touched by anyone other than her and myself. She has re-dressed your bandages everyday, washed the sweat from your brow and chest, fed you porridge and water, and sang to you during the worst of your fits. A strong one, she is.”

     “Aye, that she is,” Sandor replied, shocked by the man’s anecdote.

     “When she came riding onto the septry’s grounds on that giant black beast of yours, I didn’t know what to make of her--” he started, but stopped himself  short when Sansa entered the room.

     She wore a simple dress, of brown rough spun wool, with a gray shawl pulled around her. Her hair was neatly braided, and wet from her bath.

     “Sandor,” She whispered, and ran to his bedside, throwing her arms around his torso.

     The Elder Brother smiled and got up to leave the room, allowing the couple privacy.

     “Sandor,” she wept into his chest, repeating his name over and over, like a prayer.

     “It’s alright little bird, it’s alright now,” pulling her closer to him, causing their foreheads to touch.

     Sandor was at first taken aback by Sansa, and the overwhelming intimacy they shared, but quickly savored the moment. He nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, taking in her sent and enjoying the softness of her skin. In return, she ran her fingers through his hair, soothingly, enabling him to take his mind of the pain for a few moments that seemed to stretch on for an eternity.

     “I was certain you left me to die little bird,” he said, bringing them both back into the present. Sansa got up off the floor, and sat on the stool by his bedside.

     “I told you I could never do that, Sandor,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. _She looks tired_ , he noted. The bags under her eyes were much deeper than they were before, and her features more sharp.

     “How did you do it?” he asked.

     “I rode Stranger into town and immediately saw the septry, and I thought it was the safest place to go. In the yard, I saw a young brother, pulling a horse with a cart, and I told him that my husband was mortally wounded and asked if anyone could help save him.

     “The young brother ran inside, and came out with a satchel and climbed atop the horse with the cart and followed me to where you were. We crudely bandaged you under the tree, and then hauled you atop the cart and brought you back to the septry, where we’ve been for a fortnight since.”

     There was a small knock on the door, and a brother entered with a tray of steaming stew for Sandor. Sansa helped Sandor sit up and put the tray on his lap.

     “You’re not going to feed me like this, are you?” he groaned.

     “I know for a fact you cannot lift your arm, and that you’re most likely starving, so don’t start,” she chided him, and lifted the spoon to his lips. Reluctantly he took a bite, and Sansa smiled. He never thought a simple meat stew could taste so good; bite by bite, he finished the bowl enthusiastically.

     “How are you feeling now?”

     “Awful, but better.” The stew rested easy in his stomach.

     “I haven’t inspected your wounds today. May I?”

     “The Elder Brother told me you’ve been tending to my wounds everyday.”

     “He showed me the proper way to do so, and I couldn’t be more thankful.”

     “How does a man of the Faith know of dressing wounds?”

     “He said in his youth he had sought to become a maester, but chose the Faith instead,” Sansa explained, lifting up the sheet to tend to his leg wound. Sandor realized he was in nothing but his smallclothes, but Sansa didn’t seem to notice--or care, for that matter.

     When the bandage was removed, Sandor could see that a chunk of flesh and muscle was removed from his leg, which was healing well. Looking up from his wound, Sansa caught his eye and saw that he was relieved. She applied ointment to his leg, which burned awfully, and rewrapped his leg, and then did the same to his shoulder.

     “Would you like milk of the poppy?” she asked.

     “I’ve had enough of that stuff,” he groaned. “The Elder Brother also said you’d sing to me.”

     “Would you like a song then?”

     “Aye, any will do.”

     Softly, she sang the Mother’s Hymn, her voice was sweet and gentle in Sandor’s ears. When she finished, she gave his hand a squeeze. Before he closed his eyes, he saw the light catch Sansa’s auburn hair as she left the room.

     And then, sleep took him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Some of you commented on the last chapter: “There’s a maester hiding behind that rock, isn’t there?” And I commend you for your skills of deduction, of course Sandor couldn’t have died! I wanted to give a /twist/ to Sandor’s “death” as we know it. I hope you enjoy these next chapters ;)
> 
> -Writing about the septry proved quite difficult! I must thank awoiaf.westeros.org for all the information that’s up there. I know that there’s a septry on the Quiet Isle (cough cough) but I thought it would make sense if there was a “sister” or “partner” septry on the mainland of Westeros, in the Saltpans, which is very close to the Quiet Eisle.
> 
> -From asoiaf.westeros.org: Monastic orders of septons can live in "septries" (plural of "septry"), self-sustaining enclaves of sworn brothers who are called "brown brothers". The septry where Sansa and Sandor are at currently houses “contemplative brothers who live and work in a monastic community known as a septry. The members of the septry often take a vow of silence. The septry is headed by the Elder Brother, who is often the only one who may speak at all times. The Elder Brother is assisted in running the septry by proctors. The brothers engage in contemplation, prayer and silence. The brother wear brown-and-dun robes with wide bell sleeves and pointed cowls. One such septry is on the Quiet Isle.”


	15. Disfigurement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa bathes The Hound

     “You need a bath.”

     “Planning on bathing me, little bird?”

     Sansa ignored his tease. “I can’t imagine you can do it all by yourself in your current situation.”

     A wooden tub was brought to the room and filled with hot water by one of the brothers of the Faith. Along with it came a shallow basin with a stool to place inside, a small pitcher, scented tallow soap, and a sea sponge. Sansa thanked the brother as he left the room.

     “What is all this for?” He asked her, sitting himself up on the bed.

     “Instead of bathing in your own dirt, you’ll wash before you can soak in the tub.”

     Sansa thought it best, since there was still the slight possibility of his wounds becoming infected again. Before Sandor had awoken, Sansa had tried her best to wash the sweat away from his body, mostly his face, arms, and chest, but there were many places she couldn’t possibly reach. Without leaving time for herself to second guess her choices, and to feel embarrassed, Sansa immediately set out helping Sandor lift his tunic over his head, being mindful of his wound. She then unwound the bandage and set it to the side and then removed the one on his leg, ignoring Sandor’s scoffs the entire time.

     “Remove your small clothes and sit on the stool,” Sansa directed him.

     Sandor laughed, as he removed his smallclothes, while Sansa busied herself with checking the temperature of the bathwater.

     As naked as his nameday, Sandor Clegane unceremoniously plopped himself down on the stool, and waited for Sansa to face him.

     Sansa held the pitcher, filled with bathwater in one hand, and the soap in the other as she turned to face him, only looking at his face, and ignoring the rest of his body which she was about to wash all of.

     “Do you like what you see, little bird?” he teased her.

     “I can have one of the silent brothers come wash you if that’s what you’d like,” Sansa replied flatly, pouring the water over his head and body as she spoke.

     He was a heavily muscled man, tall and strong, with black hair that covered his chest, abdomen and legs. He knew that most women would have found his body type attractive, but his burns overshadowed everything else about him.

     Sansa had been up close to his body for the past fortnight, and noticed how his skin was covered with countless, pale scars. Some short, some deep, some hidden by body hair, some oddly shaped ones, and some so faint she’d have to look really hard to see. While he slept, Sansa tried memorizing each scar: how it felt, where it was, and mused about where she think the scar came from. She wondered how his most recent wounds would scar. _Horribly_ , she knew. _To Sandor, each scar is probably a trophy, proof that he’s lived through, and killed so many men._ Sansa had scars herself, from when Joffrey sent his Kingsguard to beat her. _I had once thought scars to be ugly things, but not anymore_. When Sansa looked at her scars upon her porcelain skin she felt empowered. She survived, at a price. Sandor had so many scars, and for every scar he had, she knew there were an innumerable amount more that were under the surface of his skin.

     “You never answered my question, little bird,” Sandor spoke as Sansa poured more water over him.

     “Hmm?” she murmured as she reached for the soap on the edge of the tub.

     “Do you like what you see?” He asked her again, catching her gaze. She blushed prettily as he knew she would, and scurried behind him to lather the soap on his back.

     “Yes,” she whispered, and continued at her task.

     Satisfied, he closed his eyes and exhaled, relaxed by Sansa’s steady movements.

     When she finished with the broad length of his back, she continued onto his front.  She rubbed the soap in smooth circles over his chest, arms, underarms, and legs, thoroughly covering his body with a layer of soap, all the while avoiding Sandor’s nether regions. Rubbing the soap in between her two hands, she applied the soap in his hair and used her fingers to rub the soap in deeply, which received a contented groan from Sandor. Sansa remembered how she had handmaidens help her bathe in King’s Landing, washing her hair, scrubbing her skin until she was pink and raw. However, nothing could begin to compare to Sansa’s fondest memories of her mother brushing her auburn curls after her bath until it shone like silk.

     Next, she took the sea sponge, and began scrubbing his body with rigor. Sandor could hear her grunt as she put her full strength into removing the dirt and sweat from his body. When she finished she wiped her brow with her sleeve, and he could see that she was sweating.

     “You missed a spot,” he teased her again. Throwing the sponge at him, she replied: “You’re capable of washing that yourself.”

     With a hearty laugh, he washed his nether regions, and lifted himself off of the stool and into the steaming tub.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fondest memories of when I first started reading sansan fan fiction was reading bathing scenes, and coming across bathing fanart (I still love that stuff *cough*) and always wanted to write a scene of my own. And things have started to heat up slightly between these two, but be wary this is a slow burn. Why doesn’t Sansa marvel in how hunky Sandor Clegane is? She’s still a sexually immature 14/15 year old, that’s why, and much of her quote on quote “affection” for him comes from her “duty” towards him. If you want mature scenes, you’ll just have to wait, because I’m keeping these characters in character as much as I can.


	16. Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions between Sansa and Sandor flare up.

Sansa had surprised Sandor by presenting him hand sewn tunics of dark brown and black, in hopes that his spirits could be lifted some. As of recent, he was able to walk between the two beds placed at opposite sides of the room, but not without difficulty. His leg would throb with each painful step. Sandor never complained outwardly however, knowing that each step would bring him closer to recovery.

 “Why are you doing all of this, little bird?” Sandor asked, inspecting Sansa’s fine needlework. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had _made_ him anything.

 “It’s my duty, my lord, is it not?” Sansa said simply, picking up two new pairs of breeches to show him.

 Hearing that, something seemed to flare up inside Sandor.

 “Your _duty?_ ” he barked at her. “Is that what you think your _duty_ is?”

 “Is taking care of you when you cannot do it yourself not my duty my lord?” she asked, genuinely confused as to why he was upset with what she said. She timidly placed the pair of breeches down on his bedside table, staying out of his arm's reach.

  _Duty, my lord_. He hated hearing those things from her. They were words weighted with hypocrisy. Sansa felt as if she was transported back to Maegor’s Holdfast in King’s Landing, where Sandor chastised her for her girlish beliefs.

 Maybe he was edged on by his own frustrations from being immobile for so long, or the fact that he hadn’t stuck his steel in someone in well over a fortnight.

 “Your _duty_ to me is to show me your sweet little cunt, or have you forgotten?” he replied brusquely.

 Hearing that sent Sansa’s emotions aflame. “You gave me to a _Frey_ , have you forgotten that? I am your _wife_ , and you were going to give me away another lord because _you_ didn’t want me,” she shot back, her hands balling into fists.

 “I thought it was the right thing!” he yelled back at her. “You never asked for this to happen!”

 “Of course I didn’t! I don’t have a choice but to deal with it, and to deal with _you_.” Before he could reply she continued: “I have been trying my best to be a good wife to you; I took care of your wounds, fed you, dressed you and bathed you--”

 “And what was that little bathing charade then, hmm?” he questioned her.

 “You needed a bath, and you know that.”

 “And what about liking what you saw, hmm? Or was that one of your pretty little lies?”

 Sansa’s mouth dropped open, and she promptly closed it.

 “Nothing to say to that, little bird? You touch me all over and say pretty things to me and then what?”

 “I was bathing you, nothing more,” she said grimly.

 “So you didn’t enjoy the feel of a real man under those little fingers of yours? Or were you thinking about your beloved Knight of Flowers the whole--”

 “I don’t want you. Not like that.” Sansa knew what he was alluding to. She was no longer a naive little girl.

 “What?” he rasped.

 “I don’t want you.”

  _Not in the way that you want me_ , her words seemed to say. The affirmation hurt him more than he thought it would.

 “Just because you don’t want me doesn’t mean I won’t have you. That’s your _duty_ , little bird, not to sew me tunics and sing me songs. I’ll have a _song_ from you little bird.”

 “Why must you say such awful things?” she choked, holding back the tears, refusing to cry because of him, and left the room.

 She had done so much for him and knew she didn’t deserve to be treated this way. She had been kind, and all but loving towards him, during his recovery. Her kindness was always followed by woe, though, so from that moment onward she vowed to herself to never waste her kindness again.

 

* * *

 A silent brother brought him his dinner that night, and he ate in silence, his blood still boiling from his squabble with Sansa from before. Sansa did not come back to the room that night, and he supposed she asked the Elder Brother to sleep in separate quarters. If he could walk, he would have tried to find her. To fight some more or to reconcile, he was not sure.

 She had not come to him the next day either, and Sandor Clegane wondered how much longer she’d persist. Breakfast and dinner were brought to him by a silent brother yet again, and with annoyance, he ate his meals alone.

 There was not much he could do alone in his room other than practice walking, which was also limited. He started to regret fighting with the girl as he prefered her company over his own. Sandor Clegane was a man who always kept himself busy, and after a day and a night of solitude, his thoughts started to catch up with him, and then his demons.

 The room was quiet, and not much could be heard other than the periodic shuffling of the silent brothers’ feet outside his closed door. After he noticed the silence, the thoughts began to come. First he thought of how he mistreated her, and what he’d say to her _if_ and _when_ she decided to visit him again. He was truly at her mercy.

 He thought of how terrible of a husband he was to her. And that he was her _husband_ , and he had a duty to her as well. After the Battle of Blackwater when Joffrey summoned him and Sansa to court, and commanded them to marry, he felt as if he was dreaming, that he’d wake up half dead before the Mud Gate. He lusted over the Northern girl far before their wedding day. She was unreachable; the bastard king’s betrothed, the Maiden made flesh. In his dreams he dreamed of her kiss, her lips soft and sweet, and on their wedding day everything also seemed unreal, and dreamlike. The more time they spent together, the more their marriage seemed to solidify.

 _She’ll never marry another, unless I kick the bucket of course_ , he thought to himself.

  _She didn’t let you die, she came back for you._

  _She tended to your wounds, sang to you, bathed you, made you new tunics and breeches and you repay her by being the vile dog you’ve always been._

 Sandor Clegane wanted to be good to her, but had no idea _how_. He lived his whole life filled with hate and rage, and always thrust that upon others. Meanwhile, Sansa Stark was born privileged, raised with complete and utter tenderness and compassion from her parents and siblings.

  _She’s lost all, and you’ve done nothing to help her deal with it._

 He knew what he’d say to her if she decided to see him again.

 

* * *

 Another two days passed, and Sansa still refused to visit him. Sandor tried asking the silent brothers about her each time they brought him his meal. His only response was a shake of the head or a shrug. _Bloody good for nothing silent brothers, what good is it to be silent anyways?_ Sandor cursed.

 On the second night, the Elder Brother visited him.

 “You look well,” he said, sitting on the stool next to his bedside. Sandor snorted. “I’ve heard you’ve been practicing walking,” the Elder Brother added.

 “Aye,” Sandor replied, knowing that the Elder Brother did not come to him to make small talk. “How is she?” he asked him.

 “Your lady wife? She is quite fine. She’s been keeping herself busy with all sorts of tasks.”

 “Has she said anything…about me?” Sandor asked, trying to hide his own desperation.

 “Only that you upset her,” he stopped to look Sandor square in the eyes. “She said she did not want to talk about it.”

 There was a pause, filled by Sandor’s felt guilt, which was amplified by the way the Elder Brother looked at him.

 “Can you tell her that I’d like to see her? It’s been three bloody days since I’ve last seen her.”

 “I can see if that can be arranged,” he said, and left Sandor to alone to reflect upon his actions.

* * *

 

She came to him on the third morning.

 “Sansa,” he said upon her entry. Her lips were taught, and her brows were furrowed. She stood by his bedside while Sandor lifted himself up out of bed, swinging his legs over the edge of the bedside.

 “Elder Brother said you wanted to see me?” she asked flatly.

 “Aye, I did. How could you leave me alone like this for three _bloody_ days, do you have any idea how--” he started. Sansa turned on her heel to leave. “Where are you going?”

 “I did not come here for you to reprimand me. I want to hear your apology,” Sansa said angrily, her hand on the door.

 Sandor sighed. He was defeated.

 “I’m sorry.”

 She exhaled slowly, folding her arms across her bust.

 Sandor tapped the space next to him on the bed, motioning her to come sit, and with much skepticism, she did.

 “I treated you poorly, little bird. There’s no excuse for it.”

 Sansa nodded.

 “You deserve so much more than what I can give you. I’m not a good man.”

 “That’s not true, you just choose not to be a good one.”

 He cocked his head towards her, looking into the eyes he sorely missed. Her eyes were a dark, turbulent blue, like the blackwater during a storm, but in them Sandor found forgiveness. And in his light grey, Sansa saw a pervading guilt, and longing.

 “You have kept me safe and have been true to your word. It is your roughness that I dislike.”

 “I can’t change who I am, Sansa. I’ve always been like this--”

 She shook her head. “You’ve been made into that, Sandor. You can be kinder and gentler if you only let yourself be so.”

 He looked away from her, ashamed by the truth of her words. He felt exposed, as if he went into a battle without his armour and sword.

 “Maybe. But I need your help to--” he paused, “show me how.”

 She squeezed his hand and smiled slightly, nodding to his confession. They sat like that for a while, silently acknowledging their truce.

  _Gods, I’ve missed her_ , Sandor thought to himself as he took in Sansa’s appearance. The light from the small window above his bed let in a beam that hit her hair in just the right way that made it shine brilliantly, like sunshine.

 “What have you been busying your time with?” he asked her, in an attempt to be more thoughtful. He had always hated small talk, but he knew he needed to try for her sake.

 “Elder Brother has set me to work helping repair old tapestries and mending clothes for the silent brothers, along with some cleaning and cooking. He won’t accept any silver or gold; rather, he has put me to work. He says that the Seven have no need for gold.”

 “That man is a strange one.”

 “I have used some of your money to buy cloth though…”

 “That’s fine girl, as long as you’re not buying expensive silks for yourself.”

 She smiled slightly. “Stranger misses you. I’ve been tending to him the best I can,” she told him. Sandor frowned at the mention of his prized war-horse.

 “Have you been brushing him down?”

 “The best I can.”

 He sighed in relief

 “The stables are not far from our room. Tomorrow, if you are feeling up to it, would you like to go see him?”

 “Aye, I would.”

 She smiled again, and Sandor noted how he had never seen anything so sweet. He’d do his best to never upset the little bird again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I present to you: Sandor Clegane, the biggest jerk in the universe. You thought there was going to be more fluff after that lovely bathing scene? Well you just got your hopes shot down GRRM style. 
> 
> Sansa is/has always been/and always will be the fucking boss.


	17. Across the Narrow Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor wounds heal. He and Sansa begin their journey across the Narrow Sea.

Sandor had never seen the horse so excited. The warhorse squirmed in his stall and neighed cheerily at the sight of his master.

     “Woah, there, there now. Woah! Stranger,” he clucked as the horse nudged its massive head into him, nipping at him playfully. Sansa watched as Sandor pet the black beast and whispered affectionately into his ear.

     “Here,” Sansa said, placing an apple in Sandor’s palm for him to feed the horse. Stranger ate the apple heartily and gobbled down a second one Sansa gave to him. She received a cheery nudge from him, which made her giggle.

     “He likes you more than me now, hm?” Sandor joked. Sansa gave him a smile as she scratched the beast behind the ears and placed kisses on his nose.

     After spending time with Stranger, the two walked into the septry’s enclosed yard, where a large apple tree stood with a stone carved bench beneath it. Under the tree they sat, silently for a while, as Sandor sharpened his longsword with a whetstone.

     “As soon as I’m well enough we’ll seek passage across the Narrow Sea,” he mentioned, still sharpening his longsword intently.

     “To where will we seek passage?”

     “Braavos might be our best option. I can speak a spit of Valyrian, and less Braavosi.”

     “Maester Luwin made us practice High Valyrian, and made us read poems and stories from great, old books. Although no one speaks it anymore,” Sansa spoke.

     “Either way, we’ll get by. Braavos is closest, and we’re bound to find someone who speaks the common tongue there. Braavos it is then,” he decided, drawing the whetstone upon his blade a final time before he put it back in its hilt.

     “What are we going to do in Braavos, my lord?”

     “First we find somewhere to live. We’ll probably spend some nights at an inn or two until we can find more permanent lodging. I’ll get a job because my coin and your jewels can only get us so far."

     “What kind of job? Will you be a bodyguard again?” she asked worriedly, knowing that if he were to become a bodyguard, there was the possibility of him becoming injured again.

     “I don’t know, little bird. Whatever I can find to make ends meet for the both of us.”

     “What kind of work should I try to find?” Sansa offered.

     “No need to worry your pretty little head over those things. I’ll work enough for the both of us,” Sandor reiterated.

     This surprised Sansa. On their journey, she knew that her lack of practical had irked Sandor. She was a lady, after all. But Sandor could be so selfless at times, and this Sansa admired. He was changing. Moments like this she saw less of the man he perceived himself to be and began to see the man that he truly was. Someday he’d be a proper lord husband to her.

     Sandor stood, still favoring his leg, and picked two apples off the tree above, handing one to Sansa. Although the air had grown cooler, Sandor wore only the simple tunic and breeches that Sansa had made for him during their time at the septry. She could see that he liked to be without his armor, and he was more relaxed without it. Under her thick cloak, she felt comfortably warm under the apple tree.

     They returned to the yard everyday so that Sandor could train, so that his body could return to its previous state. Sansa watched from her spot underneath the apple tree for hours, often reminding Sandor that he should take breaks. She fed him apples, cheese, and cold meat on fresh baked bread. Often eating wordlessly on the bench, they enjoyed the peace that fell over the yard. A kinship began to grow between the two, but neither of them noticed.

     Sandor pushed himself to his breaking point each day. Sansa took notice, and sometimes when she called to him, bidding him to take a sip from their waterskin, he’d pretend not to hear her and continue with his training until his legs wobbled and his shoulder pulsated.

     By the end of the day, he was covered in a thick coat of sweat, and his tunic and breeches stuck tightly to his muscular form. Sandor exhausted, Sansa would draw him a bath and leave to find out about their dinner. This continued every day until Sandor felt completely confident in his skills once more.

 

* * *

 

     One late afternoon, the Elder Brother sat in his private solar, when a silent brother knocked on his door. The silent brother had not needed his words for The Elder brother to understand. He could plainly see the overwhelming sense of worry in the brother’s countenance.

     “Show me,” the Elder Brother said, letting the silent brother lead the way. He was led to the septry’s gate, where a group of ten to fifteen armed men on horseback awaited. Opening the gate with a large, iron key, the Elder Brother stepped outside the gate, while motioning to the silent brother to go back inside.

    “Good afternoon, men. Welcome to the Saltpans’ Septry. How may I be of service to you?”

     The banners flew the sigils of Frey and Bolton.

     “I, Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort, and Warden of the North, am looking for Sandor Clegane, ‘The Hound,’ and his wife Lady Sansa, a beautiful girl red of hair. And I have reasonable suspicion that they have stopped at this very sept,” the man said.

     “Ah yes, the burned man and his lady. They stopped here for a while, for the man was severely injured.” the Elder brother said, choosing his words with the utmost care.

     “Do you know where they have gone, brother?” Lord Bolton asked, his eyes calculating.

     “I heard them discuss where they should go from here. The lady said she has an aunt in the Vale, and that they’d be safest there since the Vale is impregnable.”

     “I’ll impregnate that bitch!” a younger man next to Lord Bolton yelled. The rest of the men hollered along with him. Lord Bolton gave them a cross look, and all fell silent.

     “Anything else, brother?” Lord Bolton asked.

     “The burned man debated returning to the westerlands, but I believe they’re trying to make their way to the Vale. They’re probably at Maidenpool by now.”

     The air around them grew suddenly cold. Lord Bolton inspected the Elder Brother from atop his horse, speculating whether or not he believed the man’s words. But what the man said made sense. Sansa Stark had no other kin. Edmure Tully was kept hostage at Riverrun, and the Blackfish escaped into thin air. Her Aunt Lysa Arryn was her only option.

     “We thank you for your insight, brother,” he finally replied, throwing a heavy sack of coins into the man’s hands.

     “May the Seven light your way,” The Elder Brother said softly, as the entourage spurred away from the septry.

 

* * *

 

     “You must leave at once,” the Elder Brother said, as he burst into the couple’s room.

     “What has happened?” Sansa jumped from the bed. Sandor rose after her, reaching for his sword.

     “Lord Roose Bolton and his men, along with a group of Frey men, were just at the septry’s gates, looking for you. I told them that you had left for the Vale, or possibly the Westerlands. It is not longer safe for you here.”

     “We haven’t found a ship that will take us across the Narrow Sea,” Sandor reminded the Elder Brother.

     “A good man I know has docked his ship a half day’s ride over. I saw him when I was asked to perform a marriage a few days past. He sells salt and other goods to Braavos. His name is Karbo, and he can speak some common tongue. Just tell him I sent you, and he will grant you passage.”

     Are you sure of this?” Sansa chirped.

     “This I am sure.”

 

* * *

 

     That night, Sandor hardly slept. His chest filled with apprehension for the journey to come. He tossed and turned while Sansa stayed still beside him. A dagger was concealed under his pillow in case their aggressors decided to turn back.

     She looked completely peaceful. Her lips parted slightly as she breathed softly. Moonlight flooded through the room’s small window and cast a silvery light all around her. Her milky-white skin and her red hair had given her an ethereal look. Pulling her close to him, he nuzzled his face into her hair, inhaling her scent. He’d keep her safe, for she was the person he was meant to protect.

 

* * *

 

     Clouds of mist and fog formed during the night, creating a white veil for the two Cleganes to depart in. The smell of salt and sea was strong. The moisture in the air made Sansa feel clammy under her thick clothing.

     Her hair was tightly braided, and she wore a headscarf in addition to her cloak to conceal her fiery hair. Even in the thickest of the fog, anyone could spot her locks. Sandor donned the brother’s brown robes over his black armour.

     “May the Seven bless you,” the Elder brother said, as he gave them the sack of coins Lord Bolton rewarded him with. He had kindly given them enough provisions for their short journey. “I have no use for these. Please use them on your journey.”

     “You have been too kind to us. Are you sure there is nothing we can give you in return?” Sansa asked, her eyes wet.

     “Nothing at all, child,” he reassured her. “Your time here has been a pleasure to us all. All that I ask is that you stay safe.” He looked at Sandor knowingly. “If you find trouble in Essos, you are always welcome on the Quiet Isle.”

     A tear rolled down Sansa’s cheek. She wiped it away, and kissed each side of the Elder Brother’s face. He smiled like a green-boy, receiving his first kiss.

     “Seven bless you both.”

     Sandor lifted Sansa by the waist onto Stranger. Sansa looked back at the Elder Brother one last time; his eyes showed their familiar warmth as he smiled, yet a sadness crept in behind.  yet he looked very sad.

     Sandor held the Stranger’s reins close, but Sansa closer. Through her cloak’s hood and headscarf he could still smell her sweet scent.

 

* * *

 

     It was midday when they found the port. They found the ship’s captain, Karbo, and Sandor told the man what the Elder Brother told them him to say. At first the man seemed skeptical, his deep brown eyes filled with doubt. Sansa peeped something in Valryian and the man laughed, recalling how he owed the Elder Brother a debt, and he immediately granted the couple passage and a small, yet cozy, cabin.

     Stranger proved to be most difficult, kicking and bucking, unwilling to go on the ship. It took much coaxing and a few apples to get him into the hold.

     Sansa had never been on a ship before, and she felt excited and extremely nauseous all at once, and heaved over the ship's side as it left the port. Seeing this, the captain laughed heartily, and chuckled something in Braavosi that she could not understand.

     Their cabin was small: the bed was just big enough for the two of them, and there was little space to store their personal belongings apart from the floor space under the bed or next to the door. The room also sported a circular window that could be opened or closed, a small wall torch, and a chamber pot. Sansa hoped she’d get over her seasickness soon. Being confined in such cramped quarters could only make her sickness worse, she knew.

 

* * *

 

     That night Sandor felt the little bird beside him wide awake, although he was turned away from her.

     “Sleep, girl. It’ll do you some good,” he yawned.

     “I can’t,” he heard her say.

     “Why?” Sandor asked, as he turned around to see her. He saw her face streaked with tears. In the moonlight they looked like pearls.

     Unblinking, looking up at the cabins ceiling, she rasped: “I can’t stop thinking about how they died.” Weeping, she continued, “If I sleep I know the bad dreams will come, as they often do.”

     Sandor knew the dreams she spoke of and wanted to give her words of comfort. But the dreams would never stop coming. _There is no cure for nightmares_ , he thought. Until Gregor was sent to the worst of the Seven Hells, he’d never rest with ease. What would ease Sansa’s pain, he did not know. He pulled her close until the lengths of their bodies touched. His embrace was unwanted, but she did not know how to tell him otherwise.

     “We’ll avenge them. Your mother, your brother, your father, and sister and brothers, ” Sandor vowed, to Sansa and himself. He had people to avenge, as well. “My sword and life are yours.”

     Hearing this, Sansa turned towards him and buried her face in his chest. She could not tell if it was the motion of the boat or Sandor who rocked her into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Off they go! I wonder what things they’ll face across the Narrow Sea :)
> 
> \- I’m still getting used to writing longer chapters- if anything feels out of place, or you think could be elaborated more on, please write it in the reviews! All your constructive feedback helps me to make this fic the best it can be.
> 
> -The scene the night before their departure was inspired by one of Kallielef’s sansan works, which can be seen here: http://kallielef.tumblr.com/post/94735526657/au-future-sansan-living-somewhere-in-essos-and
> 
> -Sorry about the delayed update! I’ve finally settled into college, and I don’t want to put this story on the backburner while I’m here but, I also have to focus on my school work too. My lovely beta queen-sansastark is also a very busy lady, so It’ll take a little more time than usual for chapters to be posted. They’ll be longer chapters though, so stay tuned!


	18. Warmth and Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor grow closer as they travel across the Narrow Sea.

            On days when the weather was fair, Sandor would take Sansa up onto the deck. She’d take his arm as they reached the surface, and he’d stand close to her in case she lost her balance.

            Karbo’s sailors were the friendly sort, some rougher than others, but they were _men_. And Sandor had no intentions of letting them get too friendly with his little bird. A man as large and ugly as he found no trouble in doing so. 

            Often they’d stand silently beside one another, watching the waves crash upon the ship, or they would look outwards for anything they could see across the great expanse of water. Sometimes they’d spot the silhouette of another ship, but mostly for as far as the eye could see there was nothing to actually be seen.  As the afternoon began to break, yellow light sifted through the spattering of gray and purple storm clouds across the sky. The strong scent of seawater and rain filled their noses and lungs. The afternoon light fell upon the deck, making it glisten from the rain of a previous storm.

            From the corner of his eye Sandor could see wisps of fiery hair whipping in the seabreeze. He found Sansa to be more captivating than the scenery in front of him, so he gazed at her profile, taking in each of her features.

_I loved a maid as red as autumn_

_with sunset in her hair._

            Sandor recalled the Myrish song, finding it most suiting to her.

            Her cheeks and nose were flushed from the wind, and he could faintly see the curve of a little pink ear peek through the movement of her hair.

            However, her eyes looked sad and as distant as the horizon. Those eyes were once a bright, shining, Tully blue. But as of late, they had become a deep, turbulent blue. She was far away, he knew, and wondered where her mind had sailed off to.

            “Are you worried?” he asked, trying to pull her back to reality.

            “How could I not be? Aren’t you?”

            “I’ll worry about it once we get there, little bird.”

            “What if Braavos isn’t the right place for us?”

            “Then we’ll just go somewhere else. We have Stranger and plenty enough coin to get by.”

            Sansa sighed and linked herself closer to him, resting her head on his large bicep. Looking out into the dying sunset, her chest filled with worry. She knew only of Braavos from the great big books that filled Maester Luwin’s library, or from stories she had heard. _Books and stories are not the truth_. Sansa recognized that more than anyone.

 

* * *

 

            At night, she and Sandor would sup with Karbo in his cabin. They ate meals of seasoned fish and grains, with wine to wash it down. Sansa would probe the captain with all of her many questions, speaking a crude mixture of Common Tongue, Valyrian, and Braavosi, trying to learn as much as she could about the language and culture.

            Karbo spoke fondly of his homeland, informing her of certain customs that Westerosi like herself could find strange. He described Braavosi cuisine in great length, along with places they could stay and see once they reached Chequy Port. Sansa was most fascinated of his descriptions of the great canals and architecture. In her mind she could not possibly picture it. How different it sounded than anything she had ever seen in Westeros. At night when sleep would not come to her, she’d think of the stories Karbo told her and tried to envision them as best she could.

 

* * *

 

            On days when it rained heavily, Sansa and Sandor were confined to their quarters. Both were unwilling to walk up to risk catching a cold or slipping overboard.

            Sansa nested in the corner of the bed, opposite Sandor. She wore her thickest dress, stockings, and shawl, and had pulled the blanket they shared over her feet, for the inside of the cabin was damp and awfully chilly.

            She’d often pick up her embroidery and sigh, putting it down, unable to become absorbed into her work. From what Sandor could see she was embroidering simple, small fish onto a handkerchief. On days such as these Sandor would polish his beaten armour, and sharpen his blades, but had nothing to do once he had finished. From the other side of the bed he’d stare at the wall listening to the rain, or watch Sansa work.

            When Sandor attempted to make conversation it would end in an awkward silence, for they had nothing in common. They did not speak of King’s Landing, or of their travels, for each story, no matter how lighthearted the recollection started, would end in woe. Sandor could see sadness beneath the stillness of Sansa’s expression with each recollection, and he would then feel sorry that he had said anything at all. Besides, he was a physical man. When it came to social cues and courtesies, he was lost.

            Sighing, Sansa put down her embroidery for a final time, her fingers feeling cold to the bone. Cupping her hands together, she blew into them, trying to warm herself from the cool clamminess of their quarters. Lifting her eyes from her hands, she caught Sandor’s gaze.

            “You’re cold,” he noted.

            “I can’t seem to shake off this cold,” she replied.

            “Come here,” he gestured.

            Nervously, Sansa crawled towards him as he placed her in his lap, wrapping the old wool blanket around them. Taking her hands in his, he blew on them, and then rubbed them, trying to warm her up.

            “You’ll warm up faster this way,” he rasped.

            Sansa at first thought it improper to be sitting in a man’s lap, but she then remembered that he was her lord husband. She tucked the tips of her toes under his thigh and rested her head on his shoulder, feeling cozy. _And warm_ , she thought contentedly. The ice that had clung to Sansa’s skin melted away by his touch.

            He traced her fingers with his, beholding the delicacy of her small, white fingers. With his thumb he felt her palm, and then the top of her hand, enjoying their softness. The skin at her wrist was softest, and he thumbed her pulse soothingly.

            In contrast, his hands dwarfed hers. They were hard with callouses, and Sansa noticed faint, silvery scars across his fingers, through the hair on top of his hand, and palm. Sansa traced a finger across each one.

           “I’m surprised I still have all of them,” he said, noticing what she was doing.

            “It’s a good thing that you do,” she smiled. With that he pulled her closer to him, her head laid atop his chest, with her torso flushed against his. Her heart began to race and her face flushed at the contact.

            “Have you done this before?” she stammered.

            “What do you mean?” he asked, looking down at her. Her eyes were an innocent blue, as if he were looking at the maiden herself.

            “This,” she gestured with her hand. “I had never shared a bed with Arya because Winterfell was always so warm, with the spring water flowing through its walls… I never thought someone else could be so warm,” she remarked fondly.

             “No, can’t recall that I have little bird.”

 

            “You haven’t shared a bed with anyone?” she asked. The kind of _sharing_ that immediately came to mind was much different than the sharing she was referring to. _Whores, for a night at a time maybe_ , he wanted to tease, but didn’t want to spoil the moment. No one had rested with him this way before. He had never fallen asleep next to anyone but Sansa.

 

            “No, you’re the only one, little bird,” he replied. “Thought we could just share each other’s warmth for a while.” He pulled her closer to him in hopes she’d stop chirping such questions.

 

* * *

 

            One night Sansa woke to find Sandor sitting at the edge of their bed, with his back facing her. It had been a cloudy night. No moonlight filtered through their little window, making the room almost completely black. All she could discern was his hand moving in between his legs, and the sound of heavy breathing.

            A queer feeling began to fill her stomach, an unnamable sensation she had never felt before. She knew what he was touching but didn’t understand why.

            All of a sudden his head tilted back, and she heard him suppress a groan deep in his throat. Quickly, Sansa buried her face in the pillow and pretend to be asleep, not wanting to get caught peeping by the Hound.

            Sandor could not recall the last time he took himself in hand. _Too bloody long_ , he thought.

            He couldn’t sleep, especially not with his little wife pressed flushed against him while she slept so innocently. _Bugger her, bugger this_. Making sure not to wake her, he sat up slowly and made his way to the edge of the bed.

            Once he was freed, he stroked himself slowly, trying to relish in the feeling, but was quickly overwhelmed with how much he needed his release. It startled him. Knocking his head backwards, he suppressed a moan that came from the back of his throat. _Too soon, too bloody soon_ , he panted.

            Wiping his release on a nearby cloth, he looked over at his little bird, still sleeping soundly. He crawled back to her, pulling her close. Sansa tried very hard to remain still, so that he’d think she was still sleeping. It didn’t take long before Sandor was storing softly beside her.

 

Sansa sighed, and fell back asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A voyage by ship seems awfully dreadful, so I felt pretty bad for these two. I’d get terribly bored just like them.
> 
> I give you some fluff! And a little more! (You’re welcome ;) ) I’ve never written anything close to smut before *wipes brow* so it was pretty intimidating to write that little Sandor bit! I hope you enjoyed!


	19. Braavos: Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor enter the Free City of Braavos.

     Sansa was in complete awe, standing on deck when the great Titan of Braavos greeted them as they entered the secret city.

     The ship lowered its anchor in Ragman’s Harbor at sunset. The sky above was a vibrant turquoise-blue, with brilliant, fiery orange and yellow clouds spattered across it. At the horizon, the sky mirrored the clouds, but above them, a seemingly endless deep purple. Sansa had never seen such a sight in her life. And out of all the sunsets Sandor had seen in Lannisport, none had been this magnificent.

     With difficulty, Sandor led Stranger off of the ship who was kicking and bucking wildly. Sansa couldn’t tell if the beast was angry, or excited to touch solid ground after weeks of sea-travel. The ground beneath her had felt strange, but her surroundings stranger.

     “There’s a tavern with a stable not far, make sure to go there,” Karbo told them both, his articulation of the Common Tongue improved from his long talks with Sansa.

     “Thank-you Karbo, for everything,” Sansa said gratefully, as she wrapped her arms around the rough sea captains neck in a hug. Pulling away, she placed a kiss on both sides of his face.

     “If you gave me hugs and kisses everyday, I’d sail you to the Jade Sea and beyond!” Karbo laughed, and winked at Sandor.

     “Good luck to you both,” he said, walking towards Sandor with an outstretched hand.

     “And to you too Karbo, may your voyages be smooth,” Sansa commented.

     Sandor took his hand and shook it.

     “ _Valar morghulis_ ,” Karbo said, leaning into Sandor’s ear.

     Sandor knew the phrase well.

     “ _Valar dohaeris_ ,” he replied, pulling away from the man and releasing the handshake.

     Turning towards his little wife he said, “Up you go onto Stranger, ‘won’t have you walking on foot tonight.”

     Sansa reached for his shoulders to steady herself ,for she was used to this routine, as he lifted her up by her waist to place upon Stranger.

 

     High atop the warhorse, Sansa took in all the unfamiliar sights her eyes could possibly see.

     The Free city of Braavos was formed by a hundred islands connected by compact stone bridges that spanned the many canals throughout the city. Buildings here were made of deep, gray stone, and build so close that they leaned up against one another. Some houses were built above the waterways, five stories high. Towering above the buildings were enormous aqueducts that brought freshwater into the city.

     Ragman’s Harbor was filled with noise, people selling clams and shellfish, and traders from Pentos, Myr, Volantis and beyond.

     Karbo had told her how to spot out high-born and officials from everyone else -- by the different colors they wore. She could spot no high-born or officials, just common folk and lowborn alike going about their business before the sun set.

     The environment changed once they stepped out of the marketplace by the docks. With each step the canals became more numerous, and the buildings taller, and more crowded. Sandor was blatantly foreign in his heavy, black armor and longsword by his side. He and Sansa atop Stranger seemed to take up the entire path.

     As they passed, men stared them down. Their hands lightly touching the hilts of their slender swords at their hips in an almost frivolous way. They examined Sandor’s hulking figure, and gawked at the ruined side of his face. However, seemed more interested in the fair maiden who rode atop his horse. Noticing this, Sandor held the reins tighter, picking up the pace as he strode through the crowds, only looking forward. Making eye-contact could be considered provoking to these hot-blooded, water-dancing Braavosi.

_This is no place for a horse like Stranger_ , Sandor noted. _Or a girl like Sansa Stark for that matter_.

     The alleyways too narrow and crowded, and the canals to deep and wide.

 

     Sansa ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ girlishly at all the exotic sights. The hood and headscarf hid her auburn hair, but even combined could not hide her beauty. Her features were sharp, and looked radiant against the dying sun. The sunlight made her Tully blue eyes shine in a way that he had not seen in ages.

     Sandor thought she looked powerful atop his horse, her straightened back and partly hidden features gave her an air of regality. He felt as if he was smuggling something forbidden and _precious_ into the city.

 

     They went to three taverns until they found the one with a stable Karbo spoke of. Sansa swung her legs around Stranger to sit side-face, and waited for Sandor to lift her down. When he came to her, Sansa reached out her arms and held his shoulders tightly. He then lifted her off the horse as if she weighed nothing at all. For a brief moment they were very close. Sansa’s hands still wound around Sandor’s shoulders as his large hands remained at her waist. If she were to step forward their bodies would be flush against another. She licked her lips, and Sandor pulled away.

     “I’ll be back in a moment, stay here, and don’t talk to anyone,” he said, pulling on Stranger’s reigns to search for the stable boy inside the stalls.

     After a few minutes Sansa saw what she assumed to be the stable boy scurrying out of the stalls with their saddlebags, and her hulking man of a husband behind him. Without a word, he put his arm on her shoulder and ushered her inside.

     Once inside the tavern’s keeper greeted them in a mixture of Braavosi and Common Tongue.

     “Tell her we need to stay here for a couple nights, and require a hot meals and a bath,” Sandor leaned in close to speak in her ear.

     The woman chucked at Sansa’s Braavosi. Once she was done, she called across the room loudly to a young serving girl who quickly made her way over to them.

     “Rooms, this way,” she said crudely, and the couple followed her through the noisy hall to the stairs. The stable boy carried their baggage behind them.

     Just like in the canal-streets, the men touched their sword hilts and followed them with their eyes. But this time, Sandor heard someone whistle at Sansa, and even made a move to touch her.

     “Oh!” He heard her gasp.

     Before they could get close to his little bird, Sandor shoved her in front of him, half holding her, half pushing her up the stairs until they reached their room.

 

     The room was cramped, which was good enough for Sandor’s tastes. Promptly placing their things by the foot of the bed, the boy lit a fire in the dirty, small, hearth. Sandor heard the girl and Sansa speaking, their conversation short. Both the stable boy and serving girl left the room once the conversation was finished.

     Tired, Sansa sat down on the bed. To her distaste, it was a bed stuffed with straw, rather than a comfortable featherbed.

     “What did the girl say?” Sandor asked her.

     “She’d bring up our meals, and a bath once we’re done. Also, some wine for you.”

     Sandor found it thoughtful that she would order wine for him. He definitely needed it to take the nerves from the day off.

 

     For dinner they ate a hearty meal of fish, grains, and oysters covered in butter, with a loaf of hot bread to soak the juices up with. She drank a cup of goat’s milk, and Sandor washed his meal down with a flagon of sour, red wine. In King’s Landing Sansa had savory seafood dishes, but never had she tasted fish so fresh.

     And after dinner two women came in with a wooden tub. Behind them, the stable boy filled the tub with two large buckets of hot water. Sandor began to remove his armor to lay down on the bed, facing away from his little wife to give her as much privacy he could in the cramped room. Usually, he’d leave the room but, Sandor wasn’t in the mood to deal with the Braavosi men downstairs, or to venture out into the night.

Sansa’s traveling clothes pooled to the floor beneath her feet. Untying the ribbon that held up her hair, it fell down her back in thick and wild curls. She hoped to wash the scent of the sea away from her skin and hopefully the ache of their journey too. Goosepimples raised from her skin, the meager fire had yet to warm their small room.

     Looking over her shoulder, she saw Sandor on the bed, facing away from her. She let out a sigh of relief. The girl did not know how she’d feel if she knew if his eyes were on her as she bathed.

     Lowering herself into the tub, she sighed again, and began to scrub the weariness from her skin.

_He has never seen me nude,_ Sansa thought to herself as she ran her fingers through her hair. On the other hand, Sansa was not stranger to the sight of his naked form. She had watched him bathe at the Ivy Inn on the Kingsroad, and countless times shirtless, she had even bathed him when he couldn’t himself. His form had become familiar, no longer frightening. _Would he want to see me nude too?_

     Pushing the embarrassing thought from her mind, she lifted herself out of the tub and began to dry herself. With her sleeping robe tied firmly around her, she sat on the edge of the bed to braid her long, auburn hair.

     Sandor rolled over at looked at Sansa with heavily lids.

     “Enjoy your bath little bird?” He yawned

     She turned around to look at him. His hand propped up his face lazily, and he had a sheepish look to him.

     “Yes,” she chirped, “Will you take on as well?”

     “Might as well,” he said, stretching, then hobbling out of bed. The limp still remained, Sansa noticed. Each time he got out of bed, when he was tired, or exerted himself that day the limp would reappear.

 

_It’ll probably never go away_ , she thought to herself as she lay down to sleep.

     It was either in his favor or not. If the limp remained, he could no longer fight in the service of someone else. But if he had to protect himself from someone else, could he? Sansa hoped that he never had to kill again.

     But hands that were meant for killing hardly stayed clean.

     _Valar morghulis_ , She thought. And then she was fast asleep, dreaming of knights fighting alongside wolves, and the crashing of steel upon steel, and blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They’re in Braavos! This chapter was mostly plot, but I hoped you enjoyed all the same! 
> 
> Do you guys think I write enough scenes where Sansa or Sandor are bathing? Maybe I should write them bathing together someday..
> 
> Also, this is the first chapter published with out the help of my lovely beta queen-sansastark. We're both very busy (she more than I) and it's hard to find a time where she can edit / I can write. She has taught me so much about grammar, punctuation, etc and has truly helped me shape my writing tools to get this fan-fiction on its feet! She has given me so much confidence in my own writing, and I couldn't have come this far without her kindness and support. Cheers to you queen-sansastark!


	20. Braavos: Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa explore the Free City of Braavos.

     When he woke she was on the far edge of the bed. He preferred waking up with her limbs intertwined with his or, her cuddled into his chest.

     Despite their distance from Ragman's Harbor, unfamiliar noises and tongues could still be heard through the tavern's walls. Whether it be from the women in the kitchens below, or the beggars, merchants, and common folk from outside.

     This new world was strange and unfamiliar. Sandor reached out for the woman who was supposed to be his wife and drew her close to him, nestling his face in her auburn hair. She smelt of tallow soap, the straw bed, and sweetness. In a place a place totally new, she was the only thing familiar to him. Outside the word was bewildering and dangerous. But, inside the sun filtered through their dirty window slowly, streaking sunlight across the floor.

     She was his constant.

     "Sandor?" She murmured, her voice thick with sleep.

     "Didn't mean to wake ‘ya little bird." He replied, half embarrassed. 

     She rolled over in his arms and said, "good morning."

     "Good morning."

     She with heavy lidded eyes, and he, more alert than she, looked at each other. Underneath the sheets it was warm from the heat of their bodies. Sansa felt content and cozy. Less weary even from her travels after receiving a good nights rest. She assumed Sandor had been awake for a while, judging by the clarity of his voice. _Always early to rise,_ she thought.

     His hair was matted from sleep and travel, and his whiskers thick. The ruined side of his face was towards her, and she took a moment to take in his scars. She had never looked at them this intently. Even when she was in King's Landing never had she studied the details of his face, avoiding his scars as a whole.

     The burns stretched from the edge of his ear to the side of his nose, part of his eye socket, the corner of his lips, to the side of his chin, and across his jawbone. They were a dusty shade of pink. And the scars were more raised, and gruesome by the side of his head than by his nose and lips. _They're not that horrible anymore_ , Sansa remarked. Once she could only see his burns when she looked at him, as if he had two different faces. _Two different people_. She looked at his face as a whole now. When he was not scowling, or angered, his face was quite comely, with a heavy brow, hooked nose, and pronounced cheekbones. _He has grey eyes like fathers_ , Sansa remembered suddenly, memories flooding into her mind.

     When she tried to conjure the face of her father she found herself unable. It was the same with her lady mother, Robb, Bran, Rickon, and Arya. She could only remember fragments of them. No longer could she conjure the the exact color of her lady mother's hair, or the pitch of Arya's laugh, or her baby brother's smiles. Or Their absence was a void, Like an echo in a long, empty, great hall, where feasts and guests were held no more. It filled her chest until there was barely any room for the walls of her heart. 

     Opening her eyes, all she could see was Sandor Clegane.

     She was distant, it was plain to see. While she was far away Sandor took the opportunity to simply lay by her side. In moments like these, Sandor was unsure whether or not he should reel her back into the present. He wanted to pull her into an embrace, to cover her form with his, to fill the spaces between them. He had wished she was his lady wife in truth.

     Instead, he pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. She blinked.

     Sighing, she spoke, “What shall we do today?”

     “What would the little bird like to do today?”

     “Explore perhaps, there is so much we haven’t seen.”

     Sansa could get used to his tenderness.

     “Aye. We can do that.” Sandor said, getting up from bed. “But first, lets eat.”

 

* * *

 

     For breakfast they ate loaves of bread with salted butter-cream and a fruit jam.

     After dressing and eating, Sandor washed his face, and ran his fingers through his knotted hair. 

     Seeing this, Sansa asked, “Sandor?”

     “What is it?” He could see her face had turned a lovely shade of pink. Raising his eyebrows he asked again. 

     “I was wondering if I could,” locking eyes with him she continued, “If I could brush your hair for you. It seems it’s gotten quite matted from our journey and..”

      Sandor let out a laugh. Even now she was politer than ever. “Is that it? Don’t you have enough hair of your own to brush?”

     “Yes but, I thought that you might want your hair brushed.”

     “If you want to brush an old dog’s hair, be my guest.”

     “You’re not an old dog Sandor,” she spoke firmly, he wooden brush in her hand.

     “If not an old dog, what am I?” He retorted. He was surprised by her response but did not show it.

     _You’re Joffrey’s ex-sworn shield, The Hound, an ex-King’s guard, a non-ser, the Lannister’s traitor dog, a burned and godless man, a killer, and my lord-husband._

“You’re Sandor Clegane,” she replied simply.

     He sat on the edge of the bed, and Sansa placed herself behind him. Taking a section of his thick hair in hand she began brushing from the ends to the roots, humming whilst she worked. His hair had grown well past his shoulders since they had left King’s Landing. Once it was completely brushed it was as glossy and dark as a raven’s wing.

     She thought of Jon Snow.

     Removing herself from the bed, she stood in front of him. Gently, she took the hairs that fell before his eyes, and with the same tenderness that he showed her before pushed his hair behind his ear to reveal his face.

     “There,” smiling at her work she says, “much better.”

     “If you say so little bird.”

* * *

 

     Braavos seemed like a busier city than King’s Landing. Even in the early morning, the streets were filled with people weaving in between one another, going about their morning business. Sandor spotted a girl wearing rags pushing a cart filled with shellfish. At first glance, the small, lanky girl could be mistaken for a boy. She shouted out her goods in the Common Tongue, Braavosi and some other languages he could not discern.

     By the ports, exotic stalls and stand up shops had opened up for the day, selling goods from the Free Cities and beyond. Sandor knew Sansa would adore the shops, so he took her there.

    One shop sold leather wears: boots, dagger sheaths, vests, bracelets, and gloves, all elaborately decorated. Sansa ran Myrish silk and lace through her delicate fingers, in awe of all of its colors. There were shops that sold wine, gemstones, potions, weapons; Anything a man could ever think of, it was in Braavos.

     As many as there were goods, there was food. Sandor bought them a roundish fruit, with a smooth bright orange, red, yellow and somewhat green skin from a Summer Islander.  He had never seen the girl grin so wide when he bought the fruits. He'd shower her with presents everyday if she'd smile for him like that every time.

     After touring all the shops, they spotted a bridge with a stone seat, and made their way to eat their nameless fruit there. Adorning the bridge's face were carvings of sea shells, fish, mermaids, and sea-plants. Every bridge in Braavos seemed to have similar carvings.

     Sandor cut the fruit for them. On the inside the fruit was perfectly ripe, and the prettiest shade orange the couple had ever seen. It smelled just as lovely, and  its juices dripped all over their fingers and faces when they ate. The nameless fruit was sweeter than any lemon cake Sansa had ever tasted.

     After eating, Sansa tried to wipe the juices off her lap with a handkerchief.

     "Need to get you some new dresses," Sandor commented, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

     “These are fine, they’re thick and they’ll last,” Sansa said, lightly touching her lips with the handkerchief.

     “You shouldn’t be dressed in rags-”

     “They’re not rags.”

     “They’re rags compared to the fine silk dresses you used to wore back in King’s Land--”

     “We’re not in King’s Landing anymore are we?” She chided, her eyes cutting into him like steel. She wanted to forget King’s Landing. It was worlds away.

     “Besides, the girl who once lived in King's Landing is no more. I'm no-one now, and rags are good enough for her.”

     Even so, Sandor knew she deserved better than rags. 

     “Does no-one have a name?” He asked.

     She pondered deeply for a while and responded, “Alyssane.”

     It suited her.

     “And you?” She asked in return.

     “You’re the one with the creative names, although I’m no Jaehaerys.”

     She thought about it for a while, staring at him, studying his features.

     “Cederic?”

     “Common name enough.”

     He’d play the part as a sell sword from the Reach bringing his lady wife to the Free Cities to give her a better life. Their story was true enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I’m finally getting the start of this whole “writing” thing. Hopefully you’ve noticed a change in the quality of writing since the fanfics humble beginning. It’s become easier now since things have become less “plot-y” and I feel like I have more room to explore characterization and what not. 
> 
> Keeping them in character is the hardest. It’s easy as a writer to “forget” the Red Wedding (not really but, If you get what I’m saying then..) But when I’m trying to get into the head of miss Sansa Stark, it’s very immediate and still very real to her. She’s very damaged psychologically, whether it be from her emotional/physical abuse by Joffrey and the Lannisters, or the emotional trauma from the Red Wedding. I don’t intend to “fix” her by having Sandor “love her.” I also don’t plan for her traumatic past to just disappear now that she’s in Braavos. I feel like this is something that I didn’t develop in earlier chapters because 1) I didn’t have the skills to 2) The previous chapters were a lot of plot build up 3) I am more sure of what direction I want this fanfiction to go in.
> 
> As for Sandor Clegane, he will be addressed the same way Sansa is in due time.  
> (Thank-you for taking your time out to read these author’s notes!)


	21. Silks and Sorrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa must adjust to their new life in Braavos. Sandor finds a job.

After the two felt they had seen enough of Braavos for one day, they retired back to the inn for the evening. It was still early to begin supper, so the main dining hall wasn’t crowded. Usually they’d eat alone in their room away from everyone's curious eyes.

     As they waited for their supper, Sansa tried to listen in on some of the conversation others around them were having. One, for practice, and also to find out any news concerning Westeros. Besides from casual fisherman talk, there was nothing else she could understand. Although, a curious word would be repeated throughout the night: _zaldrizoti_. It was said in hushed tones, as if their tongues would be burnt by the very enunciation of the word.

     A group of Braavosi men sauntered in just as food was placed in front of Sansa and Sandor. Thier presence filled the room, and Sansa could feel twenty eyes on her. She was the only woman in the room besides some simple serving wenches. And she was much more beautiful than a simple wench.

     With a sigh, Sandor pulled her sideways into his large lap, “Go along with it Alyssane,” he rasped into her ear, “they’ll leave us along as long as we’re like this.”

     Sansa squirmed awkwardly, uncomfortably shifting back in forth in his lap. Sandor grabbed his cup of wine and gave it to her and said, “drink.”

     So she did, and the men paid the two no mind, as if they hadn’t been there at all.

 

* * *

 

     After a few days at the inn, Sandor found them a small place to live, five stories above a canal. There was a stable nearby that would house Stranger for a cheap price too. It was a two room apartment, one room with a bed, table and chairs, and brazier with caldron that hung on top of it. And a second room with a chamberpot and tub. It was a cramped space, and noises from the streets and canal below could be heard day and night. Although the windows blocked out some noise, they could only be closed at night, or else no light could enter the dim apartment.

     Sansa was given strict instruction to no leave the apartment without Sandor. _It’s far too dangerous to be wandering a city like this alone little bird_ , he warned her.

     So, in his absence Sansa tried to busy herself until he returned home. She’d embroider and sew, knit, and sing to herself. Even though she loved to do those things, she’d tire of them quickly. Pulling a chair up to the window, she’d watch people in the streets and the canal below, making her feel like she was a bird on a perch watching from high above.

     _I wonder what Sandor is doing now_ , she sighed, resting her hands on her arms on the window sill. Sandor spared no details of the job he found. The only detail he disclosed was that he worked for a silk merchant. Although there was not much in common with the two of them, Sansa missed her husband’s company. When she woke in the morning he was often already gone, and he wouldn’t return until after the sun set each day.

     Watching people go about their business was quite dull, so Sansa would make up fantastical stories for each person that walked by. Some days she had hoped to find Sandor and the merchant in the distance, but never did. From her window she had a satisfactory view the market square, and a fat-bellied juggler in bright robes was performing. He was a performer from Volantis, and he juggled for money by day, and was an expert thief by night. There was a woman who washed clothes in the canal each morning, and her story was that she was a bastard. Her noblewoman mother having an affair with a comely fisherman. And there was the group of young girls that pushed carts of shellfish who called out names and prices in different tongues. Sansa had yet to come up with a good story for them.

     With a sigh, Sansa rose from her chair by the window to lay in her bed for a while. _Our bed_ , she corrected herself, thinking of whom she shared it with. How long it would stay _their_ bed she did not know. It seemed that some strange force hindered the couple from settling down permanently. Besides, Sansa was not fond of the cramped apartment and secretly hoped that they would find somewhere nicer to start their new life in.

     Sandor had brought me here to keep me far from my enemies reach, and to start anew. Sansa was still unsure what starting anew here entailed. Will we begin our life as a couple here, and even start a family?

     _Her mother had braided her hair in the northern fashion, and began to brush her auburn tresses until they shone like bright copper._

_“Do you think Joffrey is as handsome as the princes in the songs?”_

_Her lady mother tried to hold back a giggle from her daughters sweet nativity and girlishness._

_“Maybe,” she smiled._

_“Do you think he’ll like me mother? Maybe we’ll fall in love and I’ll be queen someday,” Sansa sighed dreamily._

_“Love isn’t like it is in the songs my sweet.”_

_“Then what is it like? Haven’t you and father always loved each other?”_

_Her lady mother continued to brush her hair in silence, mulling over the right words to say to her._

_“Sansa dear,” she said, sitting on the cushioned seat beside her, “When your father and I first met we were total strangers. We married and then he followed Robert Baratheon off to war, and came back a year later to find out that Robb had been born,” she recalled._

_“Did you not love him when you married him?”_

_“No, it wasn’t love then dear. I had a duty to fulfil you see, to give him children. Did Septa Mordane tell you how children are made?”_

_Sansa’s face flushed,,“Yes, she did. She said that--,” stammering, she continued, “intercourse is a wife’s duty towards her lords husband, and the Seven above.”_

_“Septa Mordane is right. It is a wife’s duty, but intercourse is also an act of true love between man and wife.”_

_“Really?” Sansa said, shocked._

_“Yes. Duty comes first, respect then trust, and hopefully love. You see, love didn’t just happen to us. We built it slowly, stone by stone over the years.”_

     Sansa and Sandor mutually respected and trusted one another. Though he did not say it in words, Sansa knew that Sandor truly cared for her. If he didn’t care for me we wouldn’t be here, she pondered. He wouldn’t have risked so much.

     If Sandor loved her she did not know it. Sansa had once thought that she loved the King with all her heart, but that hadn’t been love at all. Though she never felt the same infatuation towards her lord husband, or the true love that her mother once spoke of.

     “ _Permit me to share some womanly wisdom with you on this very special day. The more people you love, the weaker you are. You’ll do things for them that you know you shouldn’t do. You’ll act the fool to make them happy, to keep them safe. Love no one but your children. On that front, a mother has no choice._ "

     _Oh mother, what do I do?_ Sansa wished her mother were there, brushing her copper hair  and answering all the questions she never got to ask her. _Would she tell me to do by duty by him? Would she tell me that I would love his children too?_

  

* * *

     The silk merchant seemed to think well of Sandor. He was a short, round man, who said he could use a scary man to scare of thieves and hagglers. The man knew minimal Common Tongue. And whenever Sandor displeased him, he’d be chastised rapidly in Braavosi. Other than standing by the side of the shop and scrutinizing shady customers, his boss would make him carry heavy merchandise to and from his stall to the docks.

 

    After eyeing Sandor’s countenance and long sword at his side, men with hoods and other shady figures usually stayed away from the shop. However, there were some that were daring enough to try to snatch a piece of silk and try to run for it. They all ran, but not very fast. He’d rough the thief up until they begged for mercy and surrendered the silk.

     The work payed well enough.

     "Does man have wife?" Sandor’s boss asked one evening when they closing the stall.

     "What?"

     "Do you have wife?"

     The question was completely out of curiosity. Sandor had not divulged any information about himself to the man other than that his name was Cederic and could be his bodyguard.

     "Yes"

     "Poor wife," he tsked, shaking his head. He then handed him a long piece of maroon silk.

     "For wife."

     "Thanks,” Sandor replied, feeling the softness of the silk in his calloused hands.

 

* * *

 

     When he returned to the apartment Sansa was crying.

     "Oh!” Sansa said, surprised by his entry. Quickly she dabbed her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.

    “What is the matter?” He asked, setting the present aside. When she looked away, he moved to her side on the bed. 

    “I was thinking about my mother,” she sobbed, “I can’t believe that she’s _gone_ , that they’re all _gone_.”

     Putting her face in her hands, she let out a wail. Instinctively, Sandor gently rubbed her back until Sansa seemed to calm down.

     “You’ll never stop missing them,” he spoke truthfully. When Sansa finally found the courage to look at him, he continued, “The pain doesn’t really go away either, it just becomes easier to live with.”

     Sansa wiped her eyes with her sleeve again. They were red and puffy, but still a beautiful Tully blue. _Even when she’s like this she’sstill pretty_ , Sandor reflected.

     “When does it become easier?”

     “I don’t know little bird.. it just does,” pausing, he thought of something sweet sounding that she probably wanted to hear, “Think of all the happy memories with your family, so that your mind is filled with those thoughts.”

     Sansa sniffled. “You’re right. If I dwell on the awful things, I’ll only remember the awful things that happened to them.”

     “Mhmm.”

     Sandor pat her hair and got up from the bed to retrieve the present on the table.

     "My boss gave this to me to give to you," he said, unwrapping the long piece of silk to her.

     "It's beautiful," she gasped, her mouth taking the shape of an ‘o’. "Why did he give this to you?"

     _Poor wife_ , the merchants words flashed across his mind. _Aye, and that she is_ , he thought. Freed from her golden cage, and put into a smaller, more dismal one.

     "I don't know, he's a strange man." The lie was half true.

     Smiled sweetly. "Tell him thank-you."

     Sansa wrapped the long piece of silk around her shoulders, like a shawl. “I wonder what I should embroider onto it, flowers maybe?” She spoke to herself, smiling at the thought.

     The maroon silk reflected the light from the sunset outside, and against her hair the silk looked like it was embers glowing in a hearth.

     Against the roughspun material of her dress, the contrast was awful. Sandor would ask his boss for more silk tomorrow so that Sansa could have a proper dress made.

 

* * *

 

     The next morning, the air was unusually cool. The sun had yet to burn off the early morning fog.When he arrived at work, two tall men in Westerosi amour were at the silk merchant’s stall. Sandors fist tightened around his sword’s hilt. Clearing his throat he greeted his boss in crude braavosi.

     The men turned around, their eyes widened in shock, then narrowed. Then they smiled.

     "I'd never thought I'd see The Hound on this part of the Narrow Sea"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger! I hoped you enjoyed this chapter, even though it might be a little more choppy than the others. I’m still trying to figure out what direction this plot is moving in!
> 
> Just putting that hint of Arya in there again. Am I trying to kill you with the irony of the situation? Yes, yes I am.
> 
> Also, some flashbacks! One before the arrival of the Baratheons to Winterfell, and one that actually did happen with the Queen after Sansa received her first moonblood. I’ve always loved Cat’s quote about love (even if she says it to Robb, I feel like it would be something she’d say to Sansa)


	22. A Change of Scenery

    "We need to leave, _now_."

    Sandor had burst into their small apartment with such furiosity it made Sansa scream. She had been sitting at table, knitting something.

    “Are you alright, what has happened?” She asked, as she rose to meet him. Blood was streaked across his breast.

    "I'm fine, it's not my blood, we need to go, _now_ ," He said with urgency.

    "Why, what has happened?” She touched his arm, and looked up at him, her blue eyes were pools of worry. “Please tell me Sandor," she begged.

    Sandor then let out a breath that he didn't know he was holding in.

    "There were some Westerosi men at my boss's stand today, and they _recognized_ me. Said they were going to collect the bounty on my head and I killed them. Right in the market square in front of everyone. I don't know if they had any companions but, we need to leave."

    _The gods are punishing me for being selfish, only if I did not hope for more.._ Sansa did not think she could bear the weight of having to travel again.

    " _No_ ," she retorted.

    "We _must_ go."

    "Where will we go? There is no place for us anywhere!" She yelled, her voice thick with anguish.

    Sandor reached her in less than a stride. The motion was so swift that she recoiled, thinking that he may strike her. Grabbing her roughly by the shoulders, he planted a hard kiss on her forehead. What compelled him to kiss her, he did not know, only that he hoped it would persuade her enough to go with him.

    "Sansa trust me, please," desperation rising in his throat.

    _“The Queen said she’d knight the man who slayed The Hound and his little bitch..”_

    "We'll go outside the city, or even the coast lands, not far. I promise,” he said, lifting her delicate chin with his thumb and forefinger.

   Sansa looked up at him her eyes still filled with heavy tears. Even if he had made her believe for a moment, it was enough.

    "Go, pack your things." He said softly, letting her go. He watched as she moved frantically about the room, collecting their meager belongings. Her motions reminded him of a bird with a broken wing, flopping around helplessly in the dirt, unknowing that it will never fly again.

    Having everything packed into Stranger’s saddlebags or a knapsack, Sansa wrapped the maroon-silk shawl around her head and shoulders.

    "Ready?" He asked her, she nodded.

    That morning Sandor was to ask his boss for more silk so that Sansa could make herself a pretty dress. The notion seemed a lifetime away, _she’ll never make that pretty dress_ , he thought remorsefully.

 

* * *

 

    As quick as Sandor burst into their apartment they were atop Stranger, racing out of the city.

    A long bridge took them outside city and to the coast on the lagoon. Where the shoreline ended there was a hill that rose above it, where wealthy middle class and noble elite built their large estates, far away from the noise and crampedness of the city. Closest to the shoreline was a humble fisherman’s town, where the houses were made of wood and stone. Squealing, naked children could be seen playing in the lagoon as their mothers, who were doing whatever fishermen's wives do, called out for them.

    Where the line of wooden houses ended at the foot of the hill, estates of deep grey and creamy stone with wooden roofs staggered upon a winding road. Sandor noticed numerous construction projects along the way, while Sansa hardly took in her surroundings at all.

    The hill flattened, and a market square with cobbled stone, flanked by grand estates emerged. In its center there was a great fountain, sculpted in the shape of a woman pouring water. It caught Sansa’s eye immediately, the sight of the statue was so romantic. Her robes clung to her body sensuously, and her long hair reached passed her buttox. Her sensuality made Sansa blush. Shells, coral and fish were delicately at the fountain's base. Getting off Stranger, Sandor decided they’d walk up the rest of the hill on foot.

    Sandor had Sansa enter each of the shops at the front of peoples homes, knowing that her charm would work better than his when it came to asking for work and a place to stay. But to their dismay, she was turned down.

    Sandor waited outside each estate with anticipation with Stranger. Each time Sansa exited and with her head hung low and shook her head.

    "Maybe we should try the foot of the hill," her voice trailed off and her eyes began to well with tears. Sandor lifted up her chin with her fingers again, feeling her slight tremble, "No, we'll keep trying." Her only response was a faint nod.

    As she made her to another storefront, Sansa bumped into a man who was hastily leaving it.

    “Excuse me! I’m so sorry!” Sansa exclaimed, her face as red as a beat with embarrassment.

    The man brushed himself off and said, “No harm done.” The man tried to examine Sansa’s face, and although her features were mostly hidden by her headscarf, her beauty was plain to see. He then turned to Sandor, eying his armor, sword, horse, and then his face. The contrast between the two was almost comical.

    “What are two _Westerosi_ doing in these parts?” The man asked Sansa, his voice soft yet serious. He was taller than most Braavosi men, wore indigo blue robes, and had a creased face. His expression was hard as stone, but his eyes were not unfriendly.

    “Looking for work my lord, and a place to stay as well,” Sansa said, bowing her head, her words well rehearsed. He _tsked_ at her response, and motioned for Sansa to follow him inside the storefront he left only a few moments ago, and he called out a name warmly.

    “Ryhco?” A woman’s voice called back. Sansa assumed it was the man’s wife. The shop inside was filled with bolts of delicate silks and other fabrics, a large looking-glass, and a small circle of women sewing. For a moment Sansa’s heart filled with hope that she felt would never return to her.

    The man explained to his wife behind the counter what had just happened, and what Sansa had told him.

    “What is your name child?” The woman asked, putting down the dress she was sewing to look Sansa in the eyes.

    “Alyssane, my lady,” Sansa curtsied. The woman laughed and looked at her husband whose eyes seemed to twinkle when he looked at her. His wife made a comment about her being a well mannered Westerosi.

    “And it is work you’re looking for?” She asked.

    “Yes, _anything_ ,” Sansa replied, hoping that she didn’t sound too desperate.

    “Show me your hands,” the woman asked, extending her hand to Sansa. Like her husband her face was was creased and the way her hair was tightly pulled back into a ponytail made her appear serious. But unlike her husband, the corners of her mouth seemed to constantly teeter on smiling and not smiling, and she had laughed. Sansa offered her hand to her, and the other woman ran her fingers over Sansa’s, then her palm, to the backside of her hand, and wrists.

    “These hands haven’t seen a day of work in their life,” the woman laughed again, her lips pulling up into a coy smile. Her eyes were warm like honey, and she shot her husband another look. “What can you do Alyssane?”

    “I can sew, embroider, knit, read and write, and sing and dance,” she replied, hoping she had pronounced everything right.

    “Well then, as you can see this is my shop. We make dresses, shawls, scarves, handkerchiefs, underthings, _anything_ ,” she gestured with her hand around the shop. “You seem sweet, but I already have all the skilled women I need, so I can not help you,” the woman frowned.

    “Thank-you,” Sansa curtsied a final time, and walked outside the shop, without looking back to see if the owner had changed their mind.

    Sandor didn’t need to ask how it went when he saw Sansa come outside.

    “It’s alright little bird,” he pat her on the back. "We'll just go onto the next house.."

    “Alyssane!” They heard the man call. Spinning around, the man had a slight grin on his face, as if he were just laughing. “My wife has changed her mind, a fickle one she is. You and your erm-” he paused, looking at Sandor, “Companion, can stay.”

    “Really? Truly my lord?” She said with disbelief. Sansa didn’t know what compelled the woman to change her mind, but was so grateful for the sudden change of heart that she thought she might cry.

    “Yes,” he said, his face becoming serious again. “What kind of work can you do?” He asked Sandor. Sansa translated the question for him.

    “He say’s he can do any man’s work.”

    The man said that he was an architect, and that the job site he was working at needed some strong men, not fishermen's hungry sons.

    Inside, the house was ornate, and Sansa knew that she would be more than happy living here. Servants helped carry Alyssane and Cederic’s things to their chamber on the second floor. Apparently a guest room, the windows were large and let in plenty of sunlight, and the floors were a deep gray stone. Inside there was a hearth, a large bed with curtains, a screen to dress behind, an ornately painted water basin, a cabinet for clothes and a dressing table. Although she could not precisely recall what her chambers looked like back in King’s Landing, this one felt better. Less of a cage and more of a room of her own.

    “Oh Sandor this is lovely!” explains, wrapped him in a friendly embrace.

    “Aye little bird, it is,” Sandor smiled, knowing now that the girl could find some happiness here.

* * *

 

Here are some images I've pulled from a Google search of what the estate they'll be staying at looks like. (Based of an ancient Roman patrician household) I thought it to be-- too much to describe the estate in words, so when reading the next chapters, just imagine this! (Sorry, not sorry.)

I've also come up with a house-layout myself:

(I go to art school and I am ashamed of my drawing)

 

(Atrium)                                                                                              (Garden)

An atrium open air courtyard with an impluvium to capture rainwater. This is where ancient Roman’s would entertain and receive their guests.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note:  
> Sorry for the long wait- my winter break was something out of hell, and now that I’m back at school its hard to find time to write! I’ll be posting chapters 2+ at a time to make up for the long waits.
> 
> This chapter, and the chapters after this one were hard to write, because I had to do a lot of research on Braavos, and found a disappointing amount of information. (I wish GRRM will publish a detailed map of Braavos or something, or give us more info.) From what I read Braavos is supposed to mirror Venice, with all its canals, but the aqueducts and infrastructure reminded me a lot of ancient Rome. Going off of that, I decided to base the estate that Sansa and Sandor will be staying at off of what a roman patrician homes were like. The city of Braavos seemed really cramped, and I feel like since there are so many bridges leading to the city, that the wealthy elite would live on the outer rim of the lagoon, rather than the city so that they can build their large houses. This is just what I’ve come up with, and I hope it’s believable! 
> 
> Thank-you for reading as always! Enjoy!


	23. Marga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa flourishes in her new surroundings as Sandor gets used to his new job.

     The Warrior had blessed him with strength, not the Smith. Lifting heavy stone, and carrying and mixing cement wasn’t hard work, but, day in and day out Sandor felt more like a working bull than a skilled swordsman. He wanted nothing more than to beat down some green boys or thrust his sword through a vile drunkard.

     Wiping his brow, he let out a sigh. It lightly rained most days, and on days of heavy rain he didn’t need to come to work. Although the rain was often cold, by the end of the day he’d still be drenched his own sweat from the physicality of the work. Everyday he’d tie up his hair away from his face so that it wouldn’t cling to him as he worked. The sight of his face made the other men on the job site keep their distance from him. 

     While removing his tunic, he caught the gaze of a washerwoman walking by, who immediately turned her face away from him, and scurried away. Sandor watched her body move under her dress that clinged her form. She was plain of face and hair, and Sandor unexpectedly felt himself grow hard in his breeches.

     “Bugger this, bugger her,” he said, ashamed, and took a long swig from his water skin to calm his nerves.

     At noon they’d have an hour lunch break, which Sandor always looked forward to. Rounding the corner to find where he left his packed lunch, he saw his current employer talking to his former employer.

     “Cederic? I can’t believe it!” The round, silk merchant came waddling up to him, greeting him with a brotherly embrace.

     “This man used to work for me!” Said the silk merchant to Rhyco.

     “Did he now?” Rhyco said, his voice plain and serious, as it always was.

     “He kept my stall safe, he was like my bodyguard. Until one day he killed two men in broad daylight!” He laughed and nudged Sandor.

     Sandor had wished he hadn’t said that. Rhyco’s eyes widened, then narrowed, but didn’t push the subject further.

     “So how did you meet my brother?” The round man asked, putting his arm around the architect, who seemed chagrined by his brother's affection. Sandor was shocked to know that the two men before him were brothers. They were like day and night; the silk merchant was round and boisterous, while his brother was quiet, and stern. Sandor knew how different siblings could be.

     “The same way I met you,” Sandor replied simply, and after a few minutes of watching the two men converse Sandor went to leave.

     “Cederic, wait!” The silk merchant called after him, “I have news from Westeros, if you are interested.”

     “What is it?” He asked, as he walked closer.

     “The golden-boy king of Westeros is dead.”

  

* * *

 

     Alyssane and Rhyco’s wife, who later introduced herself as Marga, got along very well, which made work a pleasant affair. Marga was a handsome woman, with a handsome voice, and loved to both tease and coo over Sansa. As they worked, they’d converse in both the Common Tongue and Braavosi.

     “How do you say----,” the Marga pronounced a word that Sansa had heard before, but hadn't know its meaning.

     “ _Zaldrizoti_?”

     “You know, winged beasts, the conquerors rode them..”

     Sansa suddenly remembered supping in the inn, and how the men uttered the word in hushed tones.

     “Dragon.”

     “Dragon! Soon there will be the uncloaking festival, have you heard of it?” Marga asked.

     “I have not,” Sansa replied.

     “Its a grand festival that happens every year to celebrate the anniversary of the uncloaking of our free city.”

     Sansa had then remembered one Maester Luwin’s lectures about how the Targaryen conquerors never “found” Braavos. Until one day hundreds upon hundreds of ships left Braavos to sail across the word to “reveal” the city, which had been a haven for those escaping the Targaryen dragon-riders.

     The other young girls in shop began to chatter about the dresses they had been working on for the festival. One girl said that she had only one dress prepared, and the other girls were shocked because, “who would think of wearing the same dress for all ten nights of the festival.” Afterwards, they went back to giggling and talking about men and other girlish fantasies, which Sansa didn’t care for much anymore.

     Once the other girls were dismissed for the day, Sansa always helped Marga close up the shop.

     “I’m glad you’ve came here Alyssane.”

     The comment made her smile. Smoothing her skirts Sansa asked, “why is that?”

     “Well, as you may of heard over and over again,” Marga rolled her eyes, “the other girls who work here will be soon marry, and will leave this shop to manage their husband’s household.

     Sansa’s lips parted to the shape of a little “O.”

     And until I find others, work becomes slow, but you-” she smiled, “you have been such a help, it seems that my customers only want the things made by your hand.”

     Hearing this, Sana felt her chest swell with pride. Her skills had become useful.

     “But even still, I must ask-- are you Cederics _lady_?” Marga’s eyes narrowed, and Sansa felt like she understood what the other woman was trying to ask.

     “Well, yes.. but we have never, uhm--” She felt as if her face was burning.

      “You mean you’ve never lain together?” Marga asked in disbelief.

     “No!” Sansa squealed, covering her face with her hands.

     “Oh child,” she laughed so hard she bent over to hold her stomach, “you are the queerest girl I’ve ever met!”

     Putting her arm around Sansa, she led her inside.

     “How did you a Rhyco meet?” Sansa asked curiously.

     “It was an arranged marriage of course,” she began, “I was about your age when my father arranged my marriage to Rhyco. At that time, Rhyco had just finished his architectural studies, and I couldn’t be more unhappy with the match!”

    “Why?”

    “I thought my father was marrying me off to a cold, boring, intellectual. And when I met him for the first time that's what he was: a cold, boring, intellectual. I’d had hoped my father would give me a more interesting match. He laughed at none of my jokes, and for the time I swore he thought I was an idiot!”

   “But what changed?”

   “Well, we got to _know_ each other. It turned out he was intimidated by my forwardness and too shy to share his true feelings. But now we can laugh and joke together, and although I know nothing of architecture, the thing he loves, he still thrills me like nothing else.”  

    “How do you know if you’re in love with someone?” Sansa had accidentally blurted out loud. Marga furrowed her brows and chose her words carefully.

 _Do I love him?_ She asked herself. What she knew was that care and love, and duty and love were not the same things. Sandor did not thrill her the way Rhyco seemed to thrill Marga. When she thought of Sandor Clegane there no butterflies in her stomach, her palms did not grow sweaty, and her tongue did not tie with the feelings she did not know how to express with words.

     _Does he love me?_

     “When you no longer have to ask yourself that question,” Marga replied.

* * *

 

 

     “How was work today?” Sansa asked, as she did every night before and she and Sandor retired to bed.

     “I heard news from Westeros,” he responded flatly.

     This prompted Sansa to sit up on the bed. She looked at him with curiosity, and fear, and he watched as she thought of all the possible things he could say to her flash across her eyes.

     “Joffrey is dead,” he finally spoke, it sounded like a lie.

     “What?” she gasped.

     “Killed at his wedding to the Tyrell bitch. Apparently the Imp poisoned him.”

     Her eyes grew wide until they welled up with tears. She then threw her arms around his neck and sobbed into his shoulder.

     _Joffrey is dead._

     He would never torment her again. Sansa Stark had finally been let free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Shirtless!Sandor is the only Sandor I need in my life tbh) But anyways.. I hope you enjoyed this little chapter here.


	24. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa wants to know what makes Sandor happy.

“I want to make him happy,” Sansa revealed to Marga in the garden one day. The remark felt strange once it rolled off her tongue, as if her lips betrayed her.

 _What have I done to make him happy?_ Sansa was always considerate and polite in everything that she did for him; she mended his clothes, complied to his orders, and tended to him when injured. Everything was out of _duty_ , but had any of that made him _happy?_ _Is there anything more I can give to him other than that?_ Sandor had abandoned everything for her sake: his station, his duty, his honor, all to give her a life of her own.

The thought of, _if she could not_ , frightened her. 

“It doesn’t take much to make men _happy,_ ” Marga smiled.

“I’ve mended his clothes, made him new ones, and have been nothing but dutiful but--” Marga cut her off.

“But you don’t think those things make him happy,” Marga finished for her.

Sansa shook her head. Marga picked a flower from the rose bush beside their seat and offered it to her. The gesture reminded her of a friend, now far away, who had once done the same.

“He is most likely grateful for those things, but there are other things that you can do, things that aren’t necessarily expected of you.”

“What can I do that will make him happy then?”

"Do you know what makes him happy?" Marga returned the question. _Did she?_ Happiness was not an emotion that Sandor Clegane seemed akin to.

“I know he likes fighting with his sword.. his horse.. and wine..” The more she spoke, the deeper she realized that she didn’t know her lord-husband well at all. It shamed her.

Marga laughed, and although it upset Sansa, she knew she deserved it.

“And you say you both are married to one another?”

“Yes,” she blushed with furious embarrassment. Marga rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“I have an idea,” Marga grinned.

 

* * *

 

That day Sandor had a visitor at the jobsite.

The little bird had come with the woman Marga, who also visited her husband during their lunch break.

“Are you hungry little bird?” Sandor asked, digging into his lunch that she had prepared for him like a ravenous dog. The pair sat on the side of the building where the wall was just high enough to sit on.

“I already ate,” she declined politely, and unwrapped a juicy pear from a cloth and placed it in his lap. “I thought you might like an extra something to eat,” she smiled.

Cutting a piece of pear with his knife, he offered it to Sansa, which she accepted. If she had taken a bite of out of the whole pear there was the threat of it dripping on her pretty clothes. Sandor knew that his lady liked to keep her hands clean.

Sansa also offered him a fresh water-skin, which he gratefully took a long swig from.

“Here my lord,” Sansa said, holding up delicate handkerchief, indicating that she wanted to wipe his face. She brushed the fine cloth across his dirty brow, cheeks, sweaty nose, and mouth. When she pulled away he could see the cloth had soiled. “Much better,” she gave him another smile.

The gesture made Sandor’s chest tighten. Whether it was the way she cleaned his face, or the sweet smile she gave him, Sandor had never felt such warmth from the little bird before.

“Alyssane?” Marga called for her. It was time to leave.

“I’m glad you visited me today,” Sandor thanked her as he stood, brushing himself off. _I wouldn’t mind if she did everyday,_ he thought.

“I will try to come as often as I can!” She chirped, her voice giddy. _He was pleased!_

 

* * *

 

 

“Such beautiful wife!” someone exclaimed, as the couple neared the job site’s entrance. It was none only than the head stone mason. The man was indeed a genius in his craft, but his work did not harden him the way it did Rhyco.

The man took a peculiar interest in Sandor, after hearing the story of how he killed two men in the market square. Often the head mason was hard to understand because he strictly spoke to Sandor in his own version of the Common Tongue. But, today he was quite clear about what he meant.

Sansa smiled prettily, her cheeks red as a beet. All the men at the jobsite seemed to take notice of her.

“Does man not kiss wife goodbye?” He teased Sandor.

Sandor looked at him, shocked, and saw the little bird’s cheeks deepen a darker shade of red.

He pointed to Sansa and remarked bluntly, “If I were husband, I would never stop kissing!”

All eyes were on them, and he didn’t want to hear about it later.

Looking at Sansa’s face, he gauged her reaction to see if she was willing. She licked her lower lip and although it trembled, she didn’t avert her gaze. Before, she could hardly look at him at all let alone in the eyes.

He reached her in one stride. And following his cue, she lifted her chin and shut her eyes, and waited for _it_ to happen.

Sansa felt his calloused hands cup her face as he pressed his lips to her cheek. His rough hands were warm, and the sensation of his beard against her skin made her gasp. When he pulled away, he could see that Sansa was still flushed, and gave her a curt nod before walking away.

“You Westerosi are so cold!” The stone mason called after him, and Sandor pretended not to hear, while Sansa stood breathless where he left her.

 

* * *

 

“Did you enjoy your kiss?” Marga asked once they arrived back at the estate.

“Yes,” she admitted, touching her cheek where his lips met her skin, still feeling the kiss’s warmth. Never before did she think that receiving a kiss could feel that good.

“There are things that feel _better_ than kissing Alysanne.” Smiling like a cat, Marga proceeded to tell her all the things she could name that felt better than kissing.

 

* * *

 

One rainy afternoon curiosity got the best of her.

Her mind could not stray from all the puzzling things Marga had told her a few days prior. The elder woman informed her: _touching your woman’s place in a certain spot can feel good, Alysanne, I hope you can find that out for yourself._ With each thing Marga divulged the more Sansa couldn’t believe her, but why would the woman lie to her in the first place?

Sansa knew nothing of pleasure, and knew she’d have to find it out for herself.

Shyly, her hand crept underneath her small clothes and into her folds. Sansa tentatively rubbed her fingers there, trying to elicit the sensation the elder woman described. Rubbing her woman’s place felt strange, and in the back of her mind Sansa tried to push away her embarrassment so that she could indulge in the feeling. She thought of the way Sandor kissed her a few days before, and how queer it made her feel.

_“There are other things that you, or a man can do,” Marga told her, “He can put his fingers inside you, or he can use his tongue to taste you.”_

Sansa blushed madly at the idea of someone kissing her, _there._ The thought made the sensation of rubbing feel even better, until she brushed past something that made her breath catch in her throat. _There._

She focused on the spot until her body was overcome by a nameless feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally an update! This chapter has been sitting around, basically complete for months now. Now that my first year of college is over, I’ll have a lot more time to write. (Go summer vacations!) I’ll be updating as often as I can throughout the summer.
> 
> \--  
> Writing about Sansa becoming sexually mature / aware of her sexuality has always been important for me, and is something that I hardly find in sansan fanfiction. I mostly see a OOC Sansa who suddenly becomes very attracted to Sandor and indulges in sex with him. (Which I don’t mind in one shots as long as there’s some background development ya’know?)
> 
> She’s a character who is (in my opinion), naive and prude when it comes to sex, which comes from her sheltered Northern upbringing. I’ve never wanted to write Sansa as a character who is wanton or submissive to Sandor’s sexual advances. To me, that’s not her. Since the start of her storyline she has always been a character who has been growing into herself, and finding out what she really wants. The same goes for her sexual development. 
> 
> Also-- points if you got the scene where they ate the pear. Just me making a little joke, carry on.


	25. The Uncloaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa dreams. There is a celebration in Braavos.

_She dreamt of hounds. She was running with them, and could feel the dry yellow grass beneath her feat. Their masters called after them, but their voices were lost in the harsh gale of wind. The sky was swirling, a deep turbulent grey. A storm was coming. She and the hounds felt it on their skin, in their bones, and in their blood. Then they smelt smoke. And at the edge of the field everything was ablaze._

Sansa woke from her dream and heard rain pouring outside.

“Sandor?” He sat at the edge of her bed by her feet.

“Didn’t mean to wake you little bird, it seems that you were dreaming.”

“I was having the strangest dream..” she rubbed her eye as she propped herself up. Whatever the dream was she couldn’t remember it now. For a while she closed her eyes and listened to the rain.

“It hasn’t stopped all day,” she remarked.

“Aye, can’t do too much in this weather.” The consistent downpour pulled work at the contraction site to a halt, and Sandor was dismissed for the day. When he came home he found her there, in their bed. Her dress pulled dangerously high up her thighs, revealing her long pale legs, and silk small clothes. The entire room smelled of her, her heat, mixed in with the smell of the rain. Every part of him wanted to climb into bed with her and pull her lithe body up against his- to smell that auburn hair that he loved so much- to kiss her long white neck- to drown in her.

Instead, he sat by her feat and watched her dream. As of late she slept better. Without nightmares or restlessness she slept peacefully through the night. Every night he’d wait for her to fall asleep so he could look at her. She was so beautiful, he would never tire of doing so.

 _I am hers and she is mine_ , he scoffed at the thought of their wedding vows. She would never be his, yet in moments like these Sandor allowed himself to believe it to be true. He was _hers_ , he had _always_ been. He would never ask her for her love nor did he think he deserved it, only that he could continue to serve her. For him, that was enough.

Sansa stirred in her sleep, and then woke.

* * *

The anniversary of the uncloaking of the free city of Braavos was in two weeks, and Alyssane had much to prepare. There were ten days of celebration, and it culminated at midnight on the tenth day, when the titan roared and all the revers and celebrants remove their masks as one. Sansa had prepared two dresses for the occasion, one of light green with silver embroidered vines and flowers and a mask to match. And another of golden yellow complimented with a mask of black feathers, that she would wear on the final day of the celebration in hope to surprise Sandor.

Marga told Sansa all about the celebration as the two vigorously worked on their dresses and other commissions. In the main city, paper lanterns were hung by rope on every canal and bridge. And even through the thick fog, Braavos became a twinkling wonder at night. Vendors sold food, and trinkets. There was music, laughter, dancing, fighting, and singing everywhere, along with extensive feasting. Even if it rained the common people still came out to celebrate. There was no way in any hell that they were going to not honor their ancestry and their beloved city.

Outside the main city, and for the elite, the celebration was more refined. The wealthy would open up their gardens and welcome people into their homes for food and drink, and music and dance. The main fountain was decorated with garlands of flowers and shells, and intricately painted purple lanterns were strung above the central square. Marga was invited to a different manse each night and Sansa gleefully attended as her guest, never before have experienced such a grand festival.

* * *

 

On first day actors played out the the history of Braavos and its uncloaking in the square. The actors wore extravagant robes of deep purple, maroon, and blue with brilliant gold embroidery. Along with masks decorated with feathers, flowers and shells which extended past the top of their heads. The play was filled with lively music, songs, and dance which Sansa enjoyed immensely. Sandor was never a fan of songs, or anything of the like, so he watched Sansa react to the play instead, taking in every small nuance of her countenance. Afterwards Marga took Sansa in arm to one of her closest friend’s gardens. There, Sansa ate delicious tarts off of fancy plates and was introduced to other women with whom she chatted with, and discussed embroidery, music and the festivities.

* * *

Sandor enjoyed the second day of the festival more than Sansa had. She didn’t have the stomach to watch men gorge themselves as as many pies as a contest. The men were indeed large, but none of them as fat as Sansa remembered Lord Manderly to be. Sandor bet on the smallest of the men, telling Sansa how he watched a similar contest in King’s Landing where the smallest of the men won. When the smallest man out-ate all the others, Sandor was given a fat purse filled with the bets he won.

* * *

The highlight of the third day were the dancers, acrobatics, and contortionists. Sansa watched in awe as the dancers moved, and their robes flowed as if they were an extension of their bodies. The acrobats did flips and tricks that Sandor enjoyed until one began to juggle with fire. In the end, the performer pulled it off without getting burned but: _who in the seven hells would play with fire?_ Sandor thought. The contortionists move and twisted their bodies in ways Sandor and Sansa didn’t think were possible, just looking at them made the two feel sore.

* * *

Sansa entered a cyvasse competition on the fourth day. She had begged Sandor to let her compete, but lost in the first round. For the rest of the day a smile was plastered on her face, happy that she had the chance to try.

* * *

Braavosi water dancing bouts with dulled swords was one of the biggest part of the festivities. Sandor thought the style strange, their movements too artistic and almost pointless compared to the Westerosi standard. The final winner of the bout was a young girl, who was unknown by the other competitors and did not give her name. When offered the prize money she bowed then sifted through the crowd and disappeared.

* * *

At a garden party Sansa tried wine for the first time in a long time. Mixed with fruit juices it mad much sweeter, and less harsh than any wine she had ever tried before. As a result, Sandor found Sansa at the end of the night, on a bench with her arm affectionately wrapped around another woman with whom she was trying to giggle quietly.

“Alyssane.”

“My husband!” Sansa exclaimed, wobbly rising from the bench. “He is here for me I presume, goodnight!” She said to her companion as she tripped on her skirts trying to walk towards Sandor. He caught her in her arms and she giggled.

“You’re very drunk little bird,” he commented, linking his arm with hers to steady her.

“I wasn’t planning on it… but it tasted so good and-!” She looked at him, “it’s not very lady-like of me is it?”

“It’s alright little bird, let’s get you home.” She stumbled and giggled the whole way home, finding her state of drunkness amusing. Sandor didn’t mind however, for she unabashedly gripped and held his body for support.

* * *

There were boat races on the seventh day, but Sansa felt to wine sick to attend. By the waters edge, Sandor bet some of his winnings from the eating contest on a boat with a blue and red sail. He didn’t know if he felt odd without Sansa beside him, or that he was being watched by someone else.

* * *

On the eighth day Marga took Sansa to the largest party yet. The decorations were lavish: hundreds of flowers that Sansa had never seen before with intoxicating smells filled rooms up to the ceilings. And people of a hundred different skin-tones who spoke a hundred different tongues attended. The smells, the sights, and the people overwhelmed Sansa to the point where she thought she might be drunk again. Surely there was nothing like this in King’s Landing? If there was, Sansa had never heard of it. A tan handsome man that Marga introduced her too kissed her hand at the end of the night. Although it flattered her, it was another man’s kiss she thought of.

* * *

Sansa visited there again the next day, and the tan handsome man she had met just the night before found she and Sandor, and asked if she wanted to see his collection. What he collected were birds from all across the world, and was happy to tell Sansa all of their names, and where they came from. He was about to tell her the name and origin of a small bird with wings the color of silver when someone asked for him, and he politely dismissed himself.

“Don’t you think it’s awful that they’re kept in cages like this?” Sansa turned to Sandor.

“Aye, it is,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. All Sansa wanted to do was to open all the cages and let the birds fly free. _Would they even know where to fly back to? Where would they go?_

That night she woke shaking from a nightmare.

* * *

Half of the tenth day was spent with Sansa fussing over her appearance, wanting to make sure every detail was just right, even when Marga insisted that she looked wonderful. Her chest was fluttered. What would Sandor think when he saw her? Taking a deep breath she put on the new mask and called for Sandor. Annoyed at not knowing what was taking the girl so damn long, he pushed open the door. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

Seeing his reaction Sansa blushed, and then twirled for him, “What do you think?”

There weren’t any words that couldn’t begin to describe the way she looked, or how it made him felt.

“Perfect,” he rasped. She skipped towards him, took his arm, and out to the festivities they went.

The entire day was a blur. There was a magnificent feast, and as they ate Sansa laughed and touched him openly. Casually resting her hand on his forearm or on the small of his back.

Sandor had hated celebrations. In King’s Landing celebrations meant Sandor would be on duty, making sure some pisspot didn’t get violent or try to attack the royal family. After the celebration finished, he’d retire alone to his chamber to drink. That was all the merriment he was allowed. But after ten full days, he had finally knew what it meant to enjoy himself. Not once did he want to drive his sword through a man, which surprised him.

* * *

Before midnight, Sandor and Sansa found a place to stand by the fountain. First Sandor removed his mask, and then Sansa’s. A stroke before midnight the whole crowd dissolved around them and it was just the two of them. The glow of her dress and skin under the flickering lantern light made Sansa glow. Holding the mask inches from her face, he moved his face closer to hers, and lingered there for only a second, then stepped away, removing her mask completely. He did not look at her.

Boldly, she stepped forward and pressed her lips onto his. Wrapping her arms around his neck and Sandor could feel her smile.

The titan’s roar broke them apart, and everyone cheered around them. The festival was complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait (again)!
> 
> The dream was inspired by a post that was floating around a while back, about the implications of seeing “hounds” in dreams. Can be read here: http://meifiction.tumblr.com/post/96173638022/txwhitewolf-was-looking-through-a-book-i-found
> 
> So I recently bought the World of Ice and Fire book and made sure to read up as much as I could on Braavosi culture. When I read about the “Uncloaking of Braavos” I knew I had to write about it! I hope you enjoyed my interpretation.
> 
> Also, a kiss!


	26. Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa tests new waters. Marga speculates the couples true identity.

His demons waited, like vultures overlooking a battlefield. At the edges of his consciousness they waited for the opportune moment to to swoop down and consume him whole. Sandor knew that this sanctuary he and Sansa found could not last.

It startled him how easy it was to forget the life they left behind, and assume the roles of Cederic and Alyssane. It was easy to think only of the beautiful girl who kissed at the festival. To think only of his _wife_ , Sansa, the little bird, was easy. During his time in Braavos, he had grown soft, he knew. Here he was Cederic, a burned man looking for good work and a wife to provide for. Not a killer, a soldier, or a turn-cloak. There was no place here for The Hound, or Sandor Clegane for that matter. But, it had to end.

When they were returning to Westerns he did not know, and back to what? he was more unsure of. A wasteland, high lords and false kings bleeding the Seven Kingdoms dry until there was nothing left even for the crows. Joffrey was dead, that he knew. But who truly ruled?

Here, it was easy to pretend that none of it even existed. There was only work day in and day out, and his sweet little bird to greet him when he returned home— _home_. But this was not home, not Sansa’s. As long as the blood of the wolf ran through her veins, home was The North and Winterfell, and that’s where they’d return. And the last he’d heard of Winterfell it was burnt by the Greyjoys.

Old feelings would resurfaced again. The fire, fire, fire, fire, _fire_. He remembered a time when all he could dream about was the green fire, fire, fire. The memory ignited within him and it felt it hard to breathe. The entire earth split open before him and hell on earth was unleashed across the Blackwater again. He could live with the pain, and the demons, but never the fire.

“Sandor?” Her voice cut through his thoughts like a blade.

He turned over in their bed, “Hm?”

The moonlight filtered in through their window. It was a quiet night. A thick rain had past; clouds hung low in the sky, and drifted away like ships.

“What’s been troubling you?” she asked.

Sighing and rubbing the memories off of his eyelids he said, “Don’t worry your pretty little head-“

“It’s my _duty_ to worry-“

That word, duty, it opened a wound in him, and old feelings came pouring out.

“What do you know of your _duty_ , wife?” Hateful, awful, spiteful, a drunk. Emotions whirled around him and pressed against the inside of his chest, wanting to burst. Sansa inhaled sharply. She had no patience for the Hound and his spitefulness. Turning towards him she touched his face, as light as a feather. Then kissed him the same way she did a week ago at the festival. But, it was much _different_ this time.

Sandor almost allowed himself to give into the kiss, “Stop,” he broke away. His heartbeat pounded in his ears like a war-drum.

“Why?” “You don’t have to do that.”

“But I _want_ to,” she pressed forward again.

“No,” he protested again, his voice graver.

“Why?” she pushed him again.

“Because I know what will happen if I let you. Sansa—“ he began, “This, I don’t deserve- You don’t deserve—"

“I like kissing you, I-I can’t stop thinking about kissing you.” Sandor felt her let out a shaky breath, as she trembled against him. She leaned forward and kissed him again, and this time he didn’t hold back. Sandor took her lips in his, and wrapped his fingers in her hair. The sensation of her skin against his emboldened his actions further. Her kisses were like fire. He pulled her small frame onto his lap and kissed as if his lungs were filled with smoke and she was his fresh air. He kissed her everywhere. Everywhere and anywhere he could put his ruined lips on. Lips, cheek, nose, neck, and the spot behind her ear. Her hair was his favorite; like fire it was maddening to him.

“Sandor,” she said breathily. Sandor was convinced he was dreaming.

“ _Sandor_ ,” she said again, but this time more firmly. Lifting herself up from his chest she got a better look at his face. Even after all the time they had spent together, reading the expression in his eyes was almost impossible. Words seemed to evaporate into air around them. When Sansa’s hand reached for his face in the dark, and traced the contours of Sandor’s face. She touched him the way one would run their fingers over their favorite book of poems: fondly, lovingly. Her delicate fingers moved across his brow, the ruined planes of his cheek, lips, chin, jawline, until she rested her hand just above his heart. When she touched him there his chest tightened. _Do you know where the heart is?_ Taking his hand, she guided it to her chest, and placed it on her own heart. Inching closer, she rested her forehead on his, and placed a kiss on his nose, on his cheeks, on his chin,and took his lips in hers once more. She only wanted for him to understand how much she felt for him, but she coulnd’t find the words to express it.

“Sandor-“ she started. “I think we’ve both had enough for one night,” he said before she could ruin him with her words. Sandor puller her into him so that her head laid on his chest; and they fell asleep that way. 

* * *

 

 

He was woken up by feeling the weight of someone else on top of him. Hot-open mouthed kisses were being placed on his neck and chest. 

"Good-morning," he grumbled as he opened his eyes to see the face of his loving wife. 

"Good-morning," she whispered in his ear, and planted a kiss there. He knew exactly where this morning was going. 

* * *

 

After their lovemaking, Marga rolled off of her husband, breathing heaving.  

"You know.." She started, propping herself up on her willowy arms. 

"What?" Rhyco asked, kissing her beside her ear and cupping one of her bear breasts. She giggled, and swatted his hand away. To him, she’d always be beautiful. 

"I don't think Alyssane is who she says she is."  Pulling away from her and he raised his brow. He didn't think their pillow talk would veer in _that_ direction.

Rhyco could tell much his wife cared for the young woman by the way she incessantly spoke of her. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Well, her name isn't even Alyssane, that I am sure of," she said, tracing his chest with her fingers. "I've heard Cederic call her 'Sansa' dozens of times now. And she even calls him 'Sandor.'"  Marga's best quality was her perceptiveness; she could see through anyone. Rhyco was surprised that she hadn’t told him sooner. Who were these strangers then? 

"Well if they're not who they say they are, who are they? Outlaws? Thieves or Murderers?" 

Marga laughed, "I doubt very much that Alyssane is a thief or a murderer-- Cederic on the other hand.." 

Rhyco chuckled, “True. But why lie?" 

"I've been thinking and, they practically _begged_ for us to let them stay here right? So I assume they fled Westeros for some extreme reason and had to change their identity." 

"Could be.." Rhyco speculated.

"So what will you do?" He asked her, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Are these strangers to stay under our roof?"  Marga smiled widely, "Only if you let me allow them to," she kissed him chastley on the lips. 

"When you find out their real story, do tell me." 

“You know I will,” she kissed him again. And a second time, and they both knew where the rest of their morning was going. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the last time I updated this fic was Jun 8th, and today's the 7th I never thought this fic would get away from me for so long (practically a year.) This chapter has been in the "works" for so long now. I truly apologize for those who have wanted this fic to update / who have been followers of this fic. This year has been crazy and I did not have the time to write. 
> 
> I'd like to thank my (irl) friends, and others who have supported and encouraged me to write again. Even though this chapter is short, I hoped you all enjoyed. Seems like Sandor and Sansa's relationship is getting more physical huh? wink wink, more to follow soon! Before you ask who was getting dirty in the AM, it's just Rhyco and Marga, tricked you there (maybe)
> 
> Thanks again!


End file.
